Triple Play
by Polgana
Summary: Gary Hobson meets Buddy Jackson. And Clay Treyton. And trouble. Now THERE's a big surprise! Fifth in a series. Written with the editing skills of Vicky Jo, who strives to make me better myself.
1. Double Trouble or Triple Threat?

Excerpt from Kindred Spirits:  
  
Gary felt . . . strange. Light, heavy, numb, sore. So sore. As he came closer to full consciousness, all the sensations began to sort themselves out. Head, arm, shoulder, ribs. Mostly head. Had he been drinking? He didn't usually drink that much, but this felt like he had really tied one on last night! He brought his right hand up and felt . . . cloth. Cloth? Bandages? Slowly, his memory crept back. Sung, the concert, the gun, Marissa. "M'rissa?"  
  
"I'm here, Gary! I'm right here!" She found his hand, clutching it like a lifeline. "Thank God! Gary, we've been so worried! You've been unconscious for so long!"  
  
"Any . . ." He swallowed past the dryness in his mouth, vaguely recalling some comment he had made about kitty litter. "Any one else . . . hurt? You . . . 'kay?"  
  
Marissa's smile was like sunshine. "Yes! I'm fine, thanks to you. And no one else was hurt either." She abruptly turned serious. "How could you do that, Gary? Put yourself in such danger for me?"  
  
"How . . . how can you . . . even . . . It was my fault!" he told her, bewildered. "And you're my friend! My best friend! Why wouldn't I help you?" God! His head hurt so bad! "Um . . . How long . . ."  
  
"Two days."  
  
He slowly turned his head towards the new voice. Toni Brigatti and Paul Armstrong stood in the doorway. "Wh-what?"  
  
"You've been in and out for the last two days," Brigatti elaborated. "Doc says the CT's and MRI's showed no serious brain damage. So you should be outta here in . . .oh . . .a week."  
  
"No," he protested. "Not that long. A day or two . . ."  
  
"One . . . week," Armstrong told him in a no nonsense tone. "I've got a set of handcuffs to chain you to that bed, if we have to."  
  
"You don't understand," he pleaded. "I have respons . . . responsibilities!" God! Even to himself, he sounded too weak to move! How would he ever convince them! "Marissa! Please...!"  
  
"What you have is a concussion, a broken arm, and two cracked ribs," Brigatti informed him. "Plus major blood loss. You are going nowhere!"  
  
"Peter and his father said they would take over your . . .responsibilities . . .whatever they are, until you're completely well," Armstrong assured him.   
  
"And that's final," Marissa told him. "I can handle the bar, so you have no excuses! You will rest, Gary Hobson! If we have to take turns sitting on your chest!"  
  
The gleam in Brigatti's eyes promised that he should probably take that literally, where she was concerned.  
  
"Um! You win," Gary sighed. "So, tell me what I missed."  
  
"Well," the tall detective shrugged, "we caught Sung on video, in the act of shooting you in the back. That was enough for the States Attorney to file charges. The others were all rounded up at the Center. Not much else to say there, except that we can convict him, now, of attempted murder even without your testimony."  
  
"But you still need me to get him for murder one," Gary finished with a sigh.  
  
Paul shook his head. "Stone says they might be able to get that just from the wire," he said hopefully. "The States Attorney's Office really wants to rush this through. They hope to have all this over with before you're in any shape to testify."  
  
"Nice of her," Gary mumbled. He was starting to feel drowsy again.   
  
"She said she owed you that much."  
  
"Speaking of owing, Mr. and Mrs. Chandler send their regards," Brigatti shrugged. "They said they had to be in Knoxville for a few days, but they'd stop by to check on you before they return home. And that somebody named Lula(?) . . . had found someone you just had to meet. Whatever that means. Oh! He wants to talk to you about cutting a demo! He was listening when we played back the tape from your wire. Said to tell you . . . What did he say, Paul?"  
  
"That Hobson had a pretty good singing voice," the big detective smiled. "That with just a little training, you could have a future in country music."  
  
Gary eyes widened in horror! Singing? He had been singing? Out loud? Oh, this just kept getting better!   
  
"He especially liked your rendition of 'Homeward Bound', "Brigatti smiled. "Said it was almost as good as the original."  
  
Mortified, Gary groaned as he tried to bury his head under the sheets. Could it get any worse?  
  
"Excuse me," a strangely familiar voice drawled. "Is this Gary Hobson's room? An old friend asked me to look him up."  
  
There was a moment of stunned silence, then . . .   
  
"Oh . . . my . . . God!" exclaimed Brigatti. "You look just like . . . Oh, this is too much! Gary, you've got to see this guy!"  
  
Slowly, Gary lowered the covers until he could see the new arrival. At first, all he saw was the Stetson hat. Then the clothes. Checked flannel shirt and jeans. Very expensive snakeskin boots. The height and build...the face.... Ohmigod! That face!   
  
"You . . . you must be . . ." he stammered.   
  
"Yessir. My name's Buddy Jackson."  
  
*******************  
  
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to lay claim to all these guys, only Polly Gannon, John Tate, Dr. Lucas and a few minor characters are mine. The rest belong to the creators of Early Edition, Angel's Dance, Convict Cowboy, Pure Country, ER, and What About Joan. Oh, Kyle isn't mine, either (Rats!).   
  
Summary: A continuation of Kindred Spirits. With a few twists. Did I mention it's a crossover?  
  
Rating: R for violence and some strong language. I tried to keep it as clean as possible, but . . . what can I say?  
  
Authors notes: Thanks to Vicky Jo for being my beta reader and providing a number of good suggestions.  
  
  
  
  
Triple Play  
by Polgana  
  
  
The resemblance was incredible. The young man standing just inside the door to Gary's room could have been his twin brother. He stepped further into the room, laying his hat and sheepskin coat on an empty chair. From the expression on his face, he was just as stunned as the rest of them.  
  
"Damn!" he exclaimed. "Lula wasn't kiddin'!" He reached down, grasping Gary's chin and gently turning his head to get a better look at the fading bruises. "Course, right now, you look like I did after those leg breakers in LA got through with me. Whose girlfriend did you steal a kiss from?"  
  
Blushing furiously, Gary pushed the hand away.  
  
"W-wasn't like that," he protested weakly. No wonder Earl disliked this guy. "Umm, Mr. Jackson, these are my . . . my friends, Marissa Clark, Toni Brigatti, and Paul Armstrong. Toni and . . . and Paul . . ."  
  
"Chicago PD," Armstrong finished for him. "And what kind of business would you have with . . .'leg breakers,' Mr. Jackson?"  
  
"Not anything I'd want the police in on," Jackson replied with a smirk. "Besides, that was a couple of years ago. I've paid my dues on that one. I'm a songwriter now," he stated proudly. "Got three on the top forty. And two more climbin' the charts."  
  
"Umm, tha . . . that's nice," Gary stammered drowsily. In spite of the excitement of meeting his 'twin,' Gary was finding it hard to stay awake. "G-gonna be . . . in town . . . long?"  
  
"Coupla weeks," Jackson shrugged. "The Songwriter's Guild is havin' a convention soon. Why?"  
  
Although finding it harder and harder to remain alert, Gary could not suppress a grin. "Drop by my place . . . corner o' Illinois an' Franklin," he offered. "Give my folks a shock."  
  
Brigatti and Armstrong exchanged a startled look. "How'd you know your parents were in town?" she asked. "They just got in this morning."  
  
Gary was having trouble staying focused. What had she said? His parents? "Mom and . . . Dad? When . . .? Oh. Umm, figured . . . some-someone'd called 'em . . . by now . . . I'm a li'l tired . . ." His voice faded as he drifted back into oblivion.  
  
Brigatti gave his hand a gentle squeeze as his eyes drifted shut. They had been warned that he might still drift in and out for a while. The bullet that had creased his head had dug a pretty deep furrow, requiring a double layer of stitches. His memory would be a little iffy too. No wonder he had looked so confused. For a moment, she just watched him, reassured by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.  
  
"What the hell happened to 'im?" Buddy asked, alarmed at how rapidly the other man had slipped into unconsciousness.  
  
"He was shot in the head," Armstrong replied bluntly. "Third, no, fourth time he's been shot this week. It was twice in the warehouse, wasn't it, Toni?"  
  
The tiny brunette shrugged, never taking her eyes off the young man who so infuriated . . .and amazed her. What had Caine said? A heart bigger that the whole damned city. And, fortunately, a head as hard as steel. "Yeah," she responded absently. "A graze across the back. And a deeper one under the left ribs. The one in the shoulder he got a coupla days later. After he and Caine stopped that attack in the park, but before he talked that lady out of jumping. Our boy's had one hell of a week."  
  
It was now Buddy's turn to be stunned. Just who was this twin of his? What kind of work was he in? He was almost afraid to ask. "The, ahm, the arm?"  
  
"A lighting arrangement fell on him," the pretty black woman said, a little hitch in her voice. "He . . . he was trying to get me away from kidnappers. By trading his life for mine. He . . . they made the . . . the trade. When Gary tried to make a run for it . . . they started shooting." Tears were streaming down her cheeks at the memory. She had never been so terrified! Not even when Gary had been trapped in that derelict carpet store. She traced a shaky hand over the healing scratches around his eyes. "They said he couldn't see. That he was . . . he was stumbling around . . . The lights and the noise . . . He must have been so frightened!"  
  
Toni knelt down and gathered Marissa in her arms. It was all the encouragement the young blind woman needed to let go with heart wrenching sobs of pent up fear and relief.   
  
"M-Marissa?"  
  
The two women sprang apart, Marissa hurriedly wiping her eyes. "I'm still here, Gary," she replied with a little sniffle.   
  
"You're cryin'. Wha's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing, Gary," she told him in her most soothing voice. "Just so happy we got out of this alive. Go back to sleep now. I'll be here when you wake up."  
  
"No you won't," he told her, struggling to sit up. Toni reached over and raised the head of the bed for him. "Thanks. Armstrong or . . . or Brigatti can take you home. No buts," he quickly squelched her protest. "Kn-knowing you, you've been here . . . the whole time. Go home. Someone's gotta take," he paused to swallow past the dryness in his throat, "take care of the place. Mom's pro'bly got all she can do . . . to keep Dad from givin' away all our stock." He gave her a lopsided smile, knowing she could sense better than others could see. "Go. Get some rest. I'll be fine."   
  
Armstrong took the hint and gently assisted Marissa to her feet. Instantly, the golden retriever that had been lying in the corner stood and walked up to her left side, waiting patiently for her to grasp his harness.   
  
"C'mon," the big detective urged. "Reilly's anxious to go. He knows Meredith is waiting to spoil him."  
  
With a ragged little sigh, Marissa gave in to the gentle bullying. She gave Gary a quick peck on the cheek, then finally allowed herself to be led from the room.  
  
Puzzled, Buddy took the vacated chair as Brigatti held a cup of water up to the injured man's mouth, urging him to drink. Finally giving in to his curiosity, Jackson asked: "Just what is it you do that gets you tore up this bad?"  
  
"Hmm?" Gary had almost drifted back to sleep, having forgotten about his odd visitor. "Oh. I, ahm, I run a bar. McGinty's. Check it out." He yawned sleepily. "Say hi to my folks for me."  
  
Still mystified, Buddy looked to the pretty cop for answers. She just shrugged as she pulled the covers up to Gary's chin. "Don't look at me," she told him. "I've known him a few years, and I still haven't figured it out."  
  
************************   
  
The next time Gary woke up, his face was turned to the window. First, he noticed that it was dark outside. What time was it? Then he noticed the slim figure sleeping in the chair. What was Brigatti doing here, he wondered. Should he let her know he was awake? The matter was taken out of his hands as she stretched languorously, failing to smother a huge yawn. Her jaws snapped shut with a click when she noticed him watching her.  
  
"Hi," he greeted her in a quiet voice, just barely above a whisper.   
  
"Hi yourself," she replied with another yawn. "Howya feelin'?"  
  
"Better. Y'okay?"  
  
"Me?" she asked with raised eyebrows. "I'm not the one who got beat up, shot, and drug around by a cold-blooded killer. Not to mention leaving a bloody trail over half of Chicago."  
  
Gary gave her a sleepy grin. "Just a few blocks," he corrected her. His lazy smile faded, to be replaced by a thoughtful frown. "We . . . we need to talk," he stammered self-consciously, looking away. "About . . . about what happened last Christmas. We've had that . . .and other things hanging over us much too long now. I just thought . . . well, first things first."   
  
Brigatti straightened up in her chair. Somehow, she wasn't really surprised. She had wondered how much longer he could sit on his anger and resentment. Toni prepared herself to receive the brunt of his disappointment and accusations. What she got surprised her.  
  
"I'm sorry," he sighed. His good hand plucked nervously at the blanket as he talked. "I . . . well, I may've over reacted. I never thought that . . . that you intended things to . . . to happen the way they . . . did. And you were right. I was still way too angry last time to talk about it rationally and I said some things . . . A-anyway, W-Winslow said that it's been . . . that you've been . . . I-I'm not gonna press any charges or . . . or anything." he finished lamely, unable to meet her eyes. "I just wish things had happened . . . differently. Th-that m-maybe we could've . . . could've had something we could . . . build on. Something . . . something good."  
  
Brigatti jumped to her feet and took a few paces towards the door. Gary thought she was going to leave, but she stopped after only two steps, putting both hands over her face. Finally, she lowered her hands, placing one on her hip. The other wiped repeatedly at her cheeks.  
  
"Th-thank you," she said, her back still to him. "That . . . that has been . . . bothering me for . . . well, since it happened. I can't begin to tell how . . . terrible I've felt over some of the . . . the awful things I said b-before you left. The way I just . . . just trampled all over your rights a-and your feelings. It wasn't right, and you have every reason to . . . to hate me. Out of my own . . . my own revulsion at what I had done, I attacked you, the injured party, as if it were all your fault. And you're apologizing to me?" Toni spun around suddenly, eyes flashing. "Where the hell do you get off apologizing? Especially after my cousin almost killed you! I should be down on my knees begging your forgiveness!"  
  
Startled by her sudden outburst, Gary could only shrug with a sheepish grin, saying simply, "If that's what you want, then you're forgiven." He pushed himself up a little straighter in the bed. "So, um . . . we're okay, now? At least, well, friends again?"  
  
Hesitantly, Toni Brigatti sat on the edge of the bed. The look Gary turned on her was so full of hope . . . and fear . . . And those damned mud puddle green eyes . . . She was suddenly holding him in a tight, desperate hug. She eased back when he tried to smother a grunt of pain. "Damn you, Hobson," she repeated with a broken sob. "You're gonna make me like you in spite of everything!"  
  
Gary had been putting as much into the embrace as she was. At her words, however, he pulled back slightly, smiling down at her. "Like?"  
  
Laughing, Brigatti leaned her head against his broad chest. "You're pushin' it, Hobson."  
  
********************************  
  
It was getting late when Buddy Jackson finally made his way to Gary's place of business. His first impression of McGinty's was of a place that didn't 'scream' anything. It spoke softly of cold beer and a warm welcome. It wasn't large and loud. Rather small and . . . neighborly. It boasted no pretentious 'atmosphere' or 'aesthetics.' It was a place to hang out with friends or family alike.   
  
As he walked through the inner door, he saw the main bar stretching out before him, a row of shelves covering two thirds of a large window behind it. A slightly smaller bar occupied the adjoining wall behind him. Half a dozen tables were spaced out in a double row leading outward from the smaller bar. Two more sat against the far wall between two brass railings. Directly across from the main bar was a raised area on which he could see a couple of pool tables and a jukebox. Three large windows would let in plenty of light in the daytime. In some ways it was like any number of honkytonks and bars he had visited across the country, but something was . . . different. It was almost . . . homey.  
  
"Oh my God! Gary?" Buddy turned back to see a tiny blonde woman coming through a door at the end of the larger bar. She was not young, yet he would be hard pressed to guess her age. Over forty, at least. He quickly snatched off his Stetson, which did nothing to diminish her confusion. "When did you . . .? Oh, I am so glad to see you . . .!" She enveloped him in a hug that threatened to steal his breath away! He was tempted to go with it. It just felt so . . . right, somehow. Almost instantly, however, he felt her tense up. She slowly stepped back, looking him up and down more closely. "You . . .you're not . . . I mean, you look like him, but . . .you can't be my son."  
  
Buddy stepped back with an awkward grin. "What gave me away?"  
  
"No bandages," she replied quickly. "And no cast. Gary has a broken arm. The same one with the bullet hole in the shoulder. My son may be a fast healer, but even he can't mend broken bones in less than a week. So, now that we know who you aren't, how about telling me just who you are," she finished, crossing her arms and fixing him with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Oh, um, I'm Buddy Jackson," he replied nervously, running his hands in slow circles around the brim of his hat. "An old . . . friend . . .of mine, Lula Rogers . . . she told me about this fella here in Chicago that she said looked just like me. Well, that kinda tickled my interest, so, since I had to be in town for a songwriter's convention later this month, I figured I'd just mosey on up a little early and check this fella out. Once I got here, and hooked up with Lula, she tells me he's in the hospital. So, I finally find him, and danged if she ain't right! We could'a been hatched outta the same egg! Anyway, since he still wasn't feelin' too swift, he suggested I come check out his place and meet the folks, meanin' you, I reckon. And, well . . . here I am," he finished with a slight hand spreading gesture. He glanced around in open admiration. "It's nice," he commented. "Kinda laid back and homey. Business Good?"  
  
"He gets by," Lois replied evasively. "Aside from showing me your uncanny resemblance to my son, how can I help you, Mr. Jackson?"  
  
Buddy stopped worrying at his hat long enough to run his right hand through thick, dark hair in a nervous gesture so familiar, it sent a chill up Lois' spine.  
  
"Well, you see," he began, "that's where it gets . . . Lula knows I was adopted. And ever since I was old enough to be out on my own, I've been lookin' to find out if I have any real blood kin left somewhere. You see, I was found a few hunnerd feet from this burnt out wreck in an arroyo a few miles outside of Fort Hood. This was right after a tornado had ripped through the countryside around Killeen, and that thing could'a been sucked up nigh onto fifty miles away. Or more. There wasn't enough left to even run a make on it. It might'a been a Ford, but they couldn't be sure. It was all twisted up like a mess o' barbed wire. Hell, for that matter there was nothing to say I was ever in it to begin with. I could'a been dropped off by coyotes for all any one knew! So, when someone tells me there's a fella in Chicago who looks enough like me to fool Lula, who knows me real well, I had to come see for myself! You, um, you know what I mean?"  
  
Lois listened to his rambling, nervous discourse until he finally ran out of words. It certainly sounded plausible. And it stirred up vague memories. Coming to a decision, she took the arm of the young man who looked so much like her absent son, and led him toward the office.  
  
"Very well," she said in a matter of fact tone. "First things first. My name is Lois. Only my son ever gets to call me 'Mom.' And 'Mrs. Hobson' is only used by those I'm royally ticked at. Second, if I'm going to help you, I need details. Lots and lots of details. Starting with: who is this Lula? How well do you know her? And how well does she know my son? Oh! And just wait 'til Bernie sees you!" she added with a laugh.  
  
"Um, who's Bernie?"  
  
"My husband and Gary's father," Lois replied. "He thinks he's seen it all. Just follow my lead. We will . . .blow . . .his . . . mind!"  
  
*****************   
  
It was a warm, windy September morning when they finally let Gary go home. He was still weak from the long period of inactivity, and from the occasional killer headache. Fortunately, they were finally decreasing in frequency and severity after earning him an extra ten days in the hospital. An infection had put him in Intensive Care for most of that time. His parents were fussing over him as the nurse entered with a wheelchair. He took one look at it and immediately began to complain.  
  
"I don't need that!" he protested. "I can walk just fine!"  
  
"We noticed, dear," Lois Hobson smiled. "Right about the time you hit the floor."  
  
Gary shot her a look. "I didn't!"  
  
"Almost," his father chimed in. "If we hadn't been here . . ."  
  
"I just . . . got a little dizzy . . . for a moment," the younger Hobson tried to explain. "When the room stopped moving, I was okay."  
  
"We could always send you home in the ambulance," the nurse smiled sweetly. "Think how impressed your neighbors will be."  
  
Grumbling about conspiracies, Gary finally gave in. His mood was not improved in the least when he found a blue and white police cruiser waiting at the door.  
  
"This is 'low profile'?" he hissed to his parents. "Where's the brass band?"  
  
"Don't be such a grouch, Gary," his mother teased. "That nice Captain Simms wanted to show her appreciation that's all."  
  
"Yeah, kiddo," Bernie said with a big grin at his only son. "Just think of it as an honor guard."  
  
Gary glared at the squad car, then at his father. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" The way his father wouldn't meet his gaze aroused his suspicions. The fact that his mother also kept looking away and trying not to smile made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. What were they planning?  
  
Thirty minutes later, they pulled up in front of McGinty's. 'At least they didn't use the sirens,' he consoled himself. The flashing lights had been bad enough! As he was helped from the car, however, his uneasiness grew. The uniformed cops were having a hard time keeping straight faces. And his dad was grinning from ear to ear. That was bad. And his mom still wouldn't look him in the eyes. That was worse than bad. What were they up to?  
  
The moment he walked into he front door of the bar, the band started up. A moment later, he was assailed with,   
  
"They call me the Fireman! That's my name.   
I run around all over town, puttin' out old flames!"  
  
Dusty Wyatt and his band were set up on the raised platform that had once held Patrick's karaoke machine. And the bar was packed! Dazed, Gary was led to a place of honor near the impromptu stage. Some part of his mind gradually took in the elaborate decorations, the banner spread above the back of the room, and . . . finally . . . the faces of the people who crowded the room. So many of them looked familiar. There was Virginia Dawson. The woman who was ready to kill herself just a few weeks ago. Paul Armstrong and his wife, Meredith. Toni Brigatti stood near the bar, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Detective Griffin, Peter Caine, and his father. Next to them was a little Oriental man he didn't recognize, but who looked older than the hills. And a pretty blonde had Peter by the arm, laughing at some joke. Captain Simms was there, as were Detective Winslow, Miguel Diaz, Molly Greene, and Rachel Stone with her husband. Even Marion Crumb was there! It suddenly dawned on Gary just where he had seen all the others. He had, at one time or another, aided each and every one of them in some way! Gary suddenly wanted to find a really deep hole, crawl in, and pull it in after him!  
  
Mrs. Chandler was behind the bar, with Lula Rogers and Buddy Jackson. The three of them were mixing up drinks like Tom Cruise in the movie 'Cocktails'! Everyone was laughing, singing, and having a wonderful time! People he barely remembered kept coming up to him to say 'thank you' and 'how do you feel?'. A lot of them kept looking at him, then at Buddy with the most incredulous looks on their faces. Several people stopped to comment on the uncanny resemblance, asking if they were twins. Still, they were obviously enjoying themselves immensely. So why was he so . . . tense? It was like he was watching a movie, where he knew something that the revelers didn't; about some impending disaster, looming just over the horizon . . . but what?  
  
Miguel was suddenly in front of him with that ever-present camera that was like an extension of him. He had intended to snap a candid shot of Hobson enjoying some well-deserved admiration, but lowered his camera at the last second. Hobson wasn't smiling. Instead, he seemed on the verge of panic!  
  
"You okay, man?"  
  
Gary nodded absently as his eyes drifted around the room, visibly wincing at each familiar face. "I . . . I'm fine, I guess. It's just . . . Major déjà vu, ya know? What are all these people . . . How did you manage to find . . . so many . . ."?  
  
"Oh, that part was easy," the photojournalist shrugged. "The real problem was paring the list down so we didn't end up SRO." At Gary's puzzled look, he translated. "Standing Room Only. Remember, I have a file goin' back almost four years on you, Hobson. I still think you'd make one hell of a story."  
  
At that, Gary went so white, Miguel thought he was going to pass out. Damn! He'd better watch it! The man was just out of the hospital, after all.   
  
"Please, Miguel," he pleaded in a near whisper. "Don't go there! I can't . . . I can't do what I do . . . if people are pointin' at me and . . . askin' me questions I can't answer. It's bad enough when they think I'm nuts!"  
  
"You mean you're not?"  
  
******************  
  
On stage, Dusty was watching the whole exchange. They had gone to a lot of trouble to set up this little shindig. It had been intended as a 'thank you' for Gary and Peter, for their having saved Harley and Lula from a gang of young bucks looking for trouble. Gary didn't seem to be enjoying the attention much. In fact, he looked downright spooked. How had this backfired?  
  
Then the guy with the camera said something that made Gary laugh, and the tension seemed to drain out of him. 'I guess the shock is wearin' off,' Dusty told himself as he began singing 'You Know Me Better Than That'. Gary's mom brought him a soda, no alcohol with pain meds, and sat down next to her son. It had surprised the Chandlers that the people closest to Hobson had taken the boy's actions so calmly. They had been concerned over his injuries, of course. The rest they seemed to shrug off. Like it was old hat.  
  
"She still thinks I'm perfect and that I like that cat.  
But you know me better than that!"  
  
******  
  
"We need to talk, son."  
  
Uh Oh. That tone could only mean a lecture was coming up. Gary took a sip of his soda and waited for her to continue.  
  
"Hasn't anyone ever told you," she began calmly, "not to go into a fight when you're already injured? If Mr. Blackstone hadn't disarmed that young man when he did, I'd be listening to sad songs at your funeral. You had a perfectly healthy bodyguard that you refused to take advantage of." She held up one hand as he started to speak. "Don't interrupt. From everything I've heard about him, he was more than capable of handling the situation alone. And, at the hotel, why were you protecting him instead of him protecting you? Can you explain that one to me?"  
  
Gary waited patiently, sipping at his drink and nodding. Once Lois indicated she was done, he took a deep breath and began his explanation.  
  
"First of all," he told her, "it was one of those things I had to be personally involved in, or it wouldn't have turned out right. Don't ask how I knew that. I just did. Also, if I hadn't been involved, I wouldn't have thought to ask Dusty for help in rescuing Marissa. And we both might have died. At the hotel . . . Peter would have died. While looking out for me, he would've seen the first shooter, but not been able to stop the second. They popped out at the same moment. I thought about warning him, and the headline became a pitched gun battle that dragged out for hours with even more people getting killed. Because of me. I couldn't have that. So I took the bullet. And I lived. End of story."  
  
Lois looked at her only child. He looked tired. "You'd do it again, wouldn't you." It was not a question. "Just like all the times you've dashed in front of speeding cars. Even after being hit by one. You'll take whatever risk you have to. As long as you can keep one more person from being hurt."  
  
Gary shot her a lopsided grin. "I hope it never comes up again," was his quiet reply. "If it does, well . . . We'll see. I hope I still have the . . . the courage."  
  
Mrs. Hobson smiled as she stood to go. Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she ruffled his dark hair.   
  
"I have no doubts about your courage," she told him. "Just your survival instincts."  
  
"Wait." Gary took another sip of his soda while he considered what to say next. "Um, how did you know? About the car." He ducked his head to hide his embarrassment, suddenly fascinated by the coaster. "I mean . . . well, it never came up before."  
  
"Gary! I'm your mother!" she exclaimed in a teasing tone. "Do you really think there is anything I don't know about you?"  
  
After days of watching her son fighting to hide his pain and misery, the smile he gave her then was like the sun coming out after a thunderstorm.   
  
"Chuck?"  
  
"Couldn't keep a secret from me if his life depended on it," she confirmed. "And you shouldn't!" She stroked his chin gently. "When that Dr. Zimmerman seemed to know you so well last year," Lois explained, "I was a little curious. He wouldn't tell me anything, so . . . I grilled Chuck."   
  
Gary's red face belied his shy grin. Poor Chuck! About that time, the band started up 'I Cross My Heart.' He vaguely recalled telling Dusty that it had been played at his wedding. Had he mentioned the divorce? He couldn't remember. As bittersweet memories threatened to get the better of him, he decided he needed to lighten up. Just for this one day. Slowly he stood up and offered his hand to his Mom.   
  
"Mrs. Hobson, may I have the honor of this dance?"  
  
Lois gave him a flirtatious smile and took his hand. "Why, sir, I thought you would never ask!"  
  
*********************  
  
It was getting late, and most of the crowd had started drifting out hours ago. The Armstrongs had been the first to go, stating they had to pick up their child at the babysitter's. That had been the beginning of a slow exodus, with Rachel Stone and her husband being the last to leave. She had assured Gary that he would not be called on to testify any time soon as the grand jury had only indicted Sung that morning. Sung had been arraigned on charges of kidnapping, attempted kidnapping, and one count of attempted murder. It did not warrant the death penalty; but if found guilty, he would be locked away for the next fifty years. At least. Also, because of his open attempt on Gary's life, he was being held without bail until his case came up for trial.  
  
The fact that he would not have to be looking over his shoulder for the next few months was a great relief to Gary. It did nothing to allay his nightmares, but at least he could still walk around in the light of day.   
  
Miguel had insisted on a few pictures of Gary with Buddy and of the two of them with Dusty and the band. He got them on the condition that he not mention anything about Gary's injuries or how he had obtained them.   
  
"Oh! These are for the bar, man!" the photojournalist smiled. "And a nice little fluff piece for the Sunday supplement. Promise."  
  
Finally there was just the McGinty's crew, the band, and Buddy Jackson left. Gary wandered over to where Dusty and Buddy were sharing a table. It had not been his intention to eavesdrop, but the conversation made him stop just a few feet away, his gaze anywhere but on the two men.  
  
"You, um, you played my song tonight," Buddy was saying as he rolled the glass in his hands nervously. "Hadn't heard it in a while. You even . . . even played it like . . . "  
  
Dusty took a swig of his beer before responding. "Figured it was time to let bygones be bygones," the singer shrugged. "You've mellowed out some, Buddy. Not as hungry, or as angry as you were then."  
  
"Or as stupid," the younger man agreed with a lopsided grin. "That stunt with the reporter . . . I can't believe I was so . . . desperate for attention. 'Blinded by the light,' so to speak. I was cocky and eager and . . ."  
  
"Young," Dusty chuckled. "God, you weren't much more than a pup, Buddy! In a hurry to make a name for yourself, that was all. We all could've handled things better. We let all the smoke and the lights blind us to what was really important."  
  
"The music," the young songwriter agreed with a nod. He held up his bottle in a toast. "To the music."  
  
"To the music." Dusty took another drink of his beer. As he set the bottle on the table, he looked over at the young barkeep. "Might as well join us, Gary," he drawled. "After all, it's your party."   
  
"And your place," Buddy added with a grin. "Although everybody kept thinkin' I was you."  
  
Red faced, Gary took a chair. "Sorry. Didn't mean to intrude," he mumbled. "Just . . .I guess I was curious about . . .What I meant was . . ."  
  
"I was a real SOB," Buddy chuckled. "So full of myself, I rubbed my own family the wrong way. Hell, thinkin' back, I'm surprised I've lived this long! I've cheated people. Stole to keep food in my belly. Got hooked up with criminals and various other lowlifes. And still cain't get my brain out of neutral before my mouth hits overdrive. I knew I had talent, but wasn't willin' to . . .I dunno, let it develop, I guess. I wanted everything fast and easy. Had to find out the hard way how to earn respect."  
  
Gary nodded soberly. "That's a hard lesson to learn," he agreed. "A lot of people never do."  
  
"You seem to've learned it pretty good," Dusty commented with a grin. "Everybody thinks highly of you around here."  
  
"Those people tonight were a minority," Gary chuckled, not catching the look on Dusty's face when he did. "Ask anyone at the 27th precinct, where Brigatti and Armstrong work, they'll use the words 'nut' and 'crackpot' . . .a lot. Along with a few choice words you can't use in front of your kids. No, I was taught that you get back as much respect as you give. As long as I can look at myself in the mirror, I'm okay."  
  
"You two even laugh alike," the singer remarked with a shake of his head. "And I've been meanin' to ask you something, Gary. How come, while you were runnin' for you life from that Sung character, you and Peter were in the park at the precise time Harley and Lula needed rescuin'? And most of the folks here tonight told pretty much the same story. Are you some kind of trouble magnet or something?"  
  
"Something like that," Gary hedged. "I just have this . . .knack for landing in the thick of things." He tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a yawn. "Sorry. Long day."  
  
"And you just out of the hospital," Buddy apologized. "We'd better let you get some rest. I'll come by in the morning. About nine? I promised Marissa to help Gene bring some stock up from the cellar."  
  
Gary started to protest, until he remembered the cast on his left arm. And the sling. If he managed to reopen that wound, he'd never hear the end of it. "'Preciate that," he sighed. "It's gonna be awhile before I'm fit for the heavy lifting."  
  
"For any lifting," Buddy remarked as he and Dusty stood to go. "Take care of yourself, pal. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
"I'll say my 'good-byes' now," Dusty told him. "The band and I have to be in N'Orleans in a coupla days. Been great gettin' to know ya, Gary. Keep yourself safe."  
  
Gary just grinned as he shook their hands. "I try never to make promises I can't keep," he drawled tiredly. "but I'll try to stay in one piece."  
  
******************  
  
Trying to smother a cavernous yawn, Gary dragged himself up the stairs to his loft. He was really looking forward to sleeping in his own bed again. Not that the hospital beds were uncomfortable. They just weren't his bed.  
  
Halfway up the stairs, he looked up to see a light on in his room. Pausing, he wondered who could be up there at this time of night. Buddy had left with Dusty and his band just a few minutes ago. Everyone else had been gone for nearly an hour.   
  
Various scenarios ran through his mind as he took a cautious step. Could it be Miguel, still trying for a story? Or one of the kids from the park looking for a little payback for their humiliation at his and Peter's hands? Or . . . Oh, God! What if Sung had sent someone to 'take care' of him? The man might be in jail, awaiting trial, but he still had connections to the outside. The image that had haunted his nightmares for the past week or so flashed through his mind. The image of a single eye staring out of a shattered face . . .  
  
"You gonna stand out there all night, Hobson?"  
  
Startled, Gary almost missed the step, catching himself at the last second. Heart racing, he peered up the stairwell at a familiar silhouette standing in his doorway.  
  
"Christ, Armstrong! Give me a heart attack, why don't ya?" Gary gasped as he slumped against the wall, his knees turning to jelly. "I thought you went home hours ago!"  
  
The tall black detective stepped out on the landing, shaking his head. "Sent Meredith to pick up the baby," he said with a shrug. "You and I need to talk."  
  
Nervously, Gary continued up the stairs. Why was it everyone was so chatty lately? Once in his loft, Gary made a beeline for the bed. Easing himself onto the mattress, he kicked his shoes off with a sigh. Having done that, Gary half turned to face his unexpected guest. Paul was not trying very hard to conceal his amusement.  
  
"What's so funny?" Gary grumbled.  
  
"You," the big detective replied with an evil grin. "Who did you think I was? Sung?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, yes," Gary shot back. "Or someone sent by him. The last coupla weeks haven't exactly been the vacation of a lifetime. Do you know some of the stuff they did to me in that hospital this past week alone? I've never had so many . . . I was perfectly capable of bathing myself. And I certainly didn't need one after every meal! I've been shaved so often, I'm surprised I have any skin left!"  
  
It was taking everything Paul had to keep a straight face. He had heard how just about every unattached nurse in the place had taken turns 'attending' to 'the incredible hunk', as some of them had taken to calling Hobson. It had become something to tease Toni about at least. Although, surprisingly, Winslow had been very watchful of his partner's reactions.  
  
"Now what's so important it couldn't wait 'til morning?" Gary asked wearily.   
  
That innocent phrase acted like a splash of ice water. Armstrong seemed almost as nervous now as Gary had felt on the stairs. He paced in front of the sofa, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.  
  
"Toni tells me that you two have . . . worked out your differences, so to speak, on whatever came between you two last year," he ventured.  
  
"We . . .talked," Gary admitted cautiously. "Why?" Suddenly he didn't feel nearly as sleepy as he had a few seconds ago. What did he know?  
  
"She suggested that, since you've suddenly developed this strange affinity for hospitals," he commented with a wry grin, "that I should try to clear up a few things while we have the chance. So . . . here I am."  
  
"To talk about . . . what, exactly?" Gary said by way of encouragement.  
  
"That whole Scanlon/Savalas mess," he sighed.   
  
Gary sat up a little straighter as he felt a chill go up his spine at just the mention of the rogue cop's name. That was not a period in his life he wanted to relive! Still, it had lain like an open wound between them for too long. "Wh-what about it?" he asked cautiously.  
  
The big detective gingerly sat in the armchair, turning it so that he was half-facing Gary, his hands now clasped in front of him, elbows resting on his knees.   
  
"Because I owe you a huge apology, " he sighed.   
  
"For not believing me?" Gary wondered aloud. "That's . . ."  
  
"For sandbagging you," Paul said in a rush of words. "The lie detector test," he added at Gary's puzzled look. "I fed the technician a few extra . . . questions. If he had stuck to the ones dealing with Scanlon, you would've passed the test easy. But . . . You're so secretive! And you never have a rational explanation for how you end up in so much trouble! Or how you know what you know! I saw a chance to force some answers from you . . .and I took it. And it screwed up your chances to clear yourself. For that . . .I'm sorry."  
  
Dazed, Gary sat staring open-mouthed as Paul finished his little speech. When Paul finally wound down, Gary slowly stood and began to pace, his right hand automatically running through his hair in a nervous gesture. Stunned, his mind raced from one scenario to another as the implications of the officer's confession stirred his memory of that nightmarish incident.  
  
"Do you have any idea," he asked tersely, "what you put me through? Any idea at all of what it was like for me out there? Imagine not being able to sleep, because someone might spot you and turn you in. Or afraid to even call on your best friends for help, in case they could be accused of conspiracy. Or, worse, they've been convinced to turn you in 'for your own good.' Can you even imagine how cold and alone, and terrified I was out there?"  
  
"Almost every night," the big man sighed.  
  
"I don't think so," Gary remarked in a tense monotone. "'Cause, if you did, if you'd really been haunted by this like I have, you'd have been here a long time ago. It was Hell, Armstrong. The purest kind of hell there is. And to know . . . to know it was . . . How could you do that?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch and volume. "I put my life in your hands! Trusted you to give me the same chance to clear myself that you would have given anyone else! But I wasn't anyone else, was I? I had a secret and you just had to have it! Couldn't rest until you wormed it out of me! Never mind justice! Never mind innocent until proven guilty! That doesn't apply here! No, no, no. Not so long as we have a chance to squeeze Hobson's 'secret' out of him! Can you even imagine what it's like not to be able to trust anyone? It wasn't bad enough having Savalas and his partner manufacturing evidence against me, turning every attempt I made to warn Scanlon into a case for premeditation. I also had you calling me 'delusional,' 'crackpot,' branding me a-a psychopath in front of the whole freaking world!" Mentally and emotionally exhausted, Gary flopped unto his sofa, forehead pressed into his good hand.   
  
"I screwed up, man," Armstrong sighed. "And I'm sorry for what I put you through. Especially after everything you'd done for Meredith, saving her life twice in less than a week. My suspicions were no excuse for what I did to you. I put my own interests above your rights, and you paid a heavy price for my obsession. Especially later, when he . . . but I can't undo it, and I don't know what to do to make it right."  
  
"I don't know if it can ever be right," Gary replied in a strained voice. "You said it. You can't take back what you did, and I can't help how I feel about it."  
  
Dejected, Paul rose to go. What had he expected? That Hobson would so easily forgive such a blatant act of betrayal? Especially after the way he had jumped all over Hobson for telling the truth about his harassment of Baylor. The way he had brushed Gary off when he tried to warn him about the slime-ball's next murder. He had forgiven him for that easy enough. It had hurt him, and he had been hurt because of it. Hurt just bad enough that he had been unable to stop Baylor from killing Judge Romick. But he had still been man enough to absolve Armstrong of any blame in the judge's death. This, however, had been a clear and deliberate betrayal. Not just of trust, but of the grudging friendship that had started to grow between them. In spite of his frustration at Hobson's secretive nature, he felt that he was basically a good . . . honest man who was simply trying to do the 'right' thing.  
  
"What is it about me?" Gary sighed into the silence. "What is it that makes it so hard for you to trust me? I'd really like to know."  
  
Paul halted with one hand halfway to the doorknob. "It's the secret, Hobson," he sighed in return, his hand falling to his side. "It's you knowing things that you can't possibly know. Things about me, my family, my life. It's not being able to get you to trust me enough to let me in!"  
  
Gary ran his hand through his hair with a long, low exhalation. He rubbed the back of his neck absently as he strove to get his wildly careening thoughts and emotions under control. Suddenly, he gave a quiet, brief burst of laughter. Puzzled, Armstrong turned once more to stare at Gary's huddled figure.  
  
"It had to happen," Gary muttered with a wry, strained chuckle. "If I hadn't been accused, arrested, and in a position for Savalas to frame me, I never would've had to dig deep enough to help Toni uncover that 'murder for hire' setup. How many more people would he have killed before someone else was able to stop him? If he ever was stopped. He could've gone on with it for years."  
  
"But you didn't have to run," Paul pointed out.  
  
"Yes, I did," was Gary's surprising reply. "If I hadn't run, the frame they built around me would've been enough to get me the death penalty. And no one but Marissa, and maybe Brigatti, seemed to think that I might possibly be innocent. Face it, Paul, as long you had me, you never even considered looking elsewhere for another suspect, did you?"  
  
"No, I didn't," he admitted. "It all fit so . . . perfect."  
  
"And that all fits in with this 'secret,'" Gary told him, a strained little 'catch' in his voice. "You were just another pawn used to push me in the right direction. Savalas had to be stopped. I had to be the one to stop him. That's what it all boils down to. Certain things have to . . .have to be made 'right.' And I have to go through all kinds of damnation to do it. Not you, nor Brigatti, nor even Crumb, although I make him crazy, too. It has to be me! I don't claim to understand it anymore than you do. I honestly don't think any 'rational' mind could. Are you sure you want in on this madhouse ride, Paul?"  
  
Something in the tone of Gary's voice worried the big cop. He sounded like someone who had been slammed from pillar to post so often he no longer felt the bruising impacts. His tone was hurt, tired . . .and numb. As if he was so close to the edge, he couldn't see anything but the long drop that lay ahead. The last time he had heard that tone in Gary's voice . . . Slowly, Paul walked over until he could kneel before the exhausted man, placing a hesitant hand on his good shoulder. Gary still sat hunched over, his hand gripping the back of his neck. Slowly, he raised tired eyes brimming with unshed tears to meet his visitor's concerned gaze. "Are you sure?" he repeated in a strained whisper.  
  
"Yes, " Armstrong told him evenly. "I'm sure."  
  
"Then . . .you're gonna have to learn to trust me," Gary told him quietly. "Because, when I do tell you, if I ever can, it's going to take the biggest leap of faith you've ever had to make in your life."  
  
******************  
  
Buddy was surprised to find Gary rushing out as he was coming in. His twin still seemed a little drawn and pale, but . . . energized in some way. He was stuffing a newspaper in his back pocket when they almost collided.   
  
"Sorry. . .Hey, Buddy! You made it! Wasn't sure with all this snow. Um, Gene can show you where to find everything and Jake'll fix you some breakfast, if you haven't eaten yet. I have a few errands to run, but I should be free by lunchtime. We haven't had much time to really get to know each other and I'd like to change that, but right now I really have to go. Bye."  
  
The words had spilled out in such a rush, Gary was gone before Buddy could get his mouth working! He found himself staring slack jawed at the closing door. Gene, the bartender, took him by the elbow and led him towards the kitchen.  
  
"You'll get used to that," he told Buddy. "He's in and out all the time."  
  
"B-but he's still . . .I mean, shouldn't he be in bed?"  
  
"Gary? The only thing that stops him is . . ." Gene had to pause a moment, considering. "Come to think of it, nothing seems to stop him. Except being hospitalized. He's been slowed down once in a while. But I've never seen a day go by that he wasn't out doing . . .something. Even in a blizzard."  
  
*********************  
  
He was a short, stocky, balding man in his fifties, with a thin little moustache. To look at, he really wasn't all that impressive. Yet, the way the two taller, younger men hovered about him, you would have thought he was a visiting head of state. He fingered the material of his new suit as he admired his image in the mirror.  
  
"Wonderful craftsmanship, as always, Angelo," he remarked in his wheezing rasp. "Wouldn't you agree, Pauly?"   
  
"It makes you look very distinguished, Uncle Vinnie," the taller of the two younger men agreed.   
  
Turning slightly, he had to agree. The dark wool jacket was cut to flatter his shape, rather than accentuate it. He was very pleased with Angelo's latest addition to his wardrobe. It also pleased him that his new soldier had taken so readily to calling him 'uncle.' Ever since the death of his real nephew in Los Angeles a few years ago, he had insisted that all his people address him that way. It had distressed him, at the time, that he had misjudged the potential of the young soldier that Nicky had suggested for the hit on that damned accountant. Not only had Tony Greco paid with his life, so had Nicky.   
  
Vinnie was a little distracted as he and his men stepped from the tailor shop and onto the busy sidewalk. As big a pain as Nicky had been, he was still family. And Tony had been a brave soldier. He'd been brought to Vinnie's attention after taking a bullet for Nicky. But Rossellini had said he just did not have what it took to kill in cold blood. Something that was often required of a good 'mechanic.' All of which made the kid's betrayal so hard to understand. Especially over a woman.  
  
His attention was caught by a frantic shout just before a hurtling body plowed into him! An instant later, there was a crash as loose masonry crashed to the spot where Vinnie had been standing! He would have hit the pavement, ruining his new suit, if not for a quick pull on his arm.   
  
"You okay?" a worried voice asked him. He looked up at the scaffold where two masons had paused in their repair work to see if anyone had been injured. Then he looked into the concerned face of the man who had just saved his life. His eyes went wide in shock. It couldn't be! He was dead! Wordlessly, he nodded.   
  
"Um, tha . . . that's good," the young man in the navy peacoat stammered. "You take care." With that, he turned and vanished into the growing crowd of on-lookers.   
  
Vinnie stared at the spot where he last saw the dark-haired young man, speechless. It couldn't be him! He knew that face! It had haunted his dreams after that disastrous mistake. He turned to Pauly, his face crimson with barely controlled rage.  
  
"You get me Rossellini," he hissed. "I want him here yesterday!"  
  
************************  
  
Wincing as he beat a hasty retreat, Gary rubbed at his aching shoulder. 'Maybe I tackled the guy a little too hard,' he mused. That could account for the stunned look on the man's face. It probably more than explained the renewed pain in his only recently healed bullet wound. 'Man! That guy only looked flabby!' There was no escaping it. He would have to take one of those blasted pain pills if he was to get any sleep at all tonight. And he really needed to get at least one good night's sleep.  
  
After that agonizing scene with Armstrong last night, his sleep was anything but restful. He had been haunted by a dream where he was being hunted through dark streets, and even darker alleyways. Of faceless people pointing accusing fingers at him as he ran by, breathless with exhaustion. Of turning to familiar faces for help, only to have guns pointed at him. He could still hear the explosive report of gunfire. Feel the pain as burning lead tore into his chest!  
  
"You okay, mister?"  
  
Startled, Gary looked into the face of a young police officer. He closed his eyes, quickly suppressing a moment of panic, his knees turning to jelly, as the dream can flooding back. He nodded wordlessly as, trembling, he was helped to a bench, his head spinning.   
  
"J-just a little winded," he gasped, right hand still on his aching shoulder. "I-I'll be okay. S-sorry."  
  
"No sweat, pal," the young cop assured him. "You still look a little pale, though. You have a heart condition or something?"  
  
Gary shook his head. "Gunshot. J-just got out of the hospital y-yesterday," he stammered breathlessly. "Guess I still . . . n-need to take it easy."  
  
"You look like you need to go back in for a check up," he was told bluntly. "What were you running from?" At Gary's puzzled look, the officer explained. "Well, you weren't actually running, but you sure were hot-footing it! And you didn't seem to be . . . seeing where you were going, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Oh," Gary mumbled in sudden understanding. "I, um, I had a kind of waking nightmare, I guess," he explained. "S-something I saw, or thought I saw must 've triggered it."  
  
"You have these 'nightmares' often? Or only since the, um . . ."  
  
"It's been a while," Gary replied with a shaky smile. "Hope it's the last, officer . . ."  
  
"Oh, Tate. John Tate. If you won't let me take you to the ER, how's about I drive you home?" he asked. "Mister . . .?"  
  
Gary told him his name and where he lived. That had been the last headline. At least until this afternoon. And, Tate was right. He felt lousy.  
  
*******************  
  
"You had no business going out this soon!" Lois snapped. "What if you'd reopened that wound? And, why didn't you tell me you couldn't sleep? Your father and I were right here! We could've talked it out!"  
  
"Please, Mom," Gary moaned. "I don't need this right now! That last one wasn't so hard. It was just a simple matter of pushing someone out of the way. My shoulder is sore, but it's fine. And, I'm not a little kid anymore. I have to take care of my own nightmares."  
  
Lois sat down next to her son on the sofa, her anger chased away by her overwhelming concern for his well-being. She slipped an arm around him and pulled him close. He resisted, at first. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he laid his head on her shoulder.   
  
"I'm sorry, Mom," he murmured softly. "This is one bad dream I can't share. It's just too . . . personal. I don't want to see it reflected in your eyes every time you look at me."  
  
She stroked his back tenderly, just as she had when he was her little boy. He had tried to hide his pain then, too. This time, however, she felt he might be right. The past few weeks had been very trying for him. Each had been a nightmare in its own right.   
  
"Don't the police have counselors?" she asked. "For victims of violent crimes, I mean. Or that Dr. Griner you went to last May. Just listen to me, son," she added as she felt his body stiffen. "You've been shot, kidnapped, and shot again. If anyone qualifies, it's you. On top of that, you're carrying around all the pressure of dealing with the paper, of knowing that some gangster could still . . . It's a huge burden for one healthy pair of shoulders to bear. You have someone willing to help you now. That nice Mr. Cain and his father. Why didn't you let them handle the paper today?"  
  
"Forgot to tell you," Gary mumbled drowsily. He was really very tired. Maybe he had jumped back into harness too soon. "Peter and his dad had to go out of town this morning. Detective Griffin, too. Something about a dragon's wing. Told me about it last night. At the party. Nice party, by the way. Did I ever thank you for that?" His eyelids felt like lead. As the soothing, repetitive motion that Lois' hand made lulled his senses, his eyes drifted closed.  
  
"Yes, dear. When you asked me to dance," Lois told him softly. She continued to rub his back as he slowly drifted off to sleep in her arms. It had been a long, long time since he had last done that. As his head slid down onto her lap, she realized that it was one of the things she missed.   
  
******************  
  
As Buddy served the people at table six their orders, he wondered, for the umpteenth time, what was keeping Gary? He had more or less promised they would have lunch together, and here it was after one. Had his errands run longer than he'd expected? Still, he was getting a kick out of the looks on the faces of regulars when they realized he wasn't Gary. Especially that guy with the redhead in tow. Both of them looked like they had seen a ghost. As soon as they'd gotten a good look at him, they turned tail and ran! What was that all about?  
  
"Hey, Buddy!" Bernie greeted him as he stepped into the office. "You seen Gary, yet?"  
  
The young musician shook his head as he took off the apron he had been wearing. 'Wouldn't the guys back home love this!' he thought, grinning to himself. 'Five songs in the top forty and here I am, waiting tables!'   
  
"Those errands of his must've run into overtime," he shrugged. "Reckon Lois would like to join us for lunch? Marissa said there's a really good Texas style grill not far from here."  
  
Bernie set down the inventory sheet he had been going over and stood up. Rolling his shoulders to work out a few kinks, he turned towards the back stairway. "Only one way to find out," he said. "Let's go up and ask her. Have you been up to Gary's loft, yet?"  
  
"Not yet," Buddy replied with a shake of his head. "I'd like to see it, though. Get an idea if'n our tastes run the same."  
  
As they ascended the stairs, Bernie grinned at the younger man. "Admit it," he said. "This 'twin' thing is blowing your mind, too."  
  
Buddy rubbed the back of his neck, scrunching his eyes thoughtfully. "It's a poser, alright," he admitted. "If we ain't related, that'd be one hell of a coincidence."  
  
Bernie paused with one hand on the door. "With Gary, there's no such thing as a coincidence," he remarked cryptically. "You're here for a reason. We just don't know what it is yet."  
  
"It'll be to die at a young age if you wake him up," Lois Hobson hissed in a loud whisper as they entered the apartment.   
  
Startled, the two men froze half way through the door. Then, moving quietly, they rounded the end of the sofa to see Gary lying with his head in his mother's lap, sound asleep.   
  
"A policeman brought him home a little over an hour ago," Lois told them quietly. "He'd . . . well, he'd had some kind of . . . blackout, I guess. Anyway, his shoulder was hurting so I made him take one of the pills the doctor prescribed. He must've skipped breakfast this morning, because it hit him like a brick."  
  
"A blackout?" Bernie repeated worriedly, kneeling to get a better look at his son. "Why didn't he take Gar to the hospital?"  
  
"He didn't pass out," Lois replied. "Gary said it was more of a . . . a fugue state. A 'waking nightmare,' I think is what he called it." She gently brushed the hair back from Gary's forehead. "I think he had a few real nightmares last night. He told me he hadn't slept well after Detective Armstrong left. I'd give my right arm to know what that man said that upset him so much!"  
  
"Maybe we oughta go to the source," Buddy suggested. "After we get some food into Rip Van Winkle, here. You were right, those things hit hardest on an empty stomach. I've, ahm, had a little experience with 'em myself. I never said I was all that good in a fight," he added with a grin. He reached out and shook Gary by the hip. "Rise 'n shine, cuz," he said in a loud voice. "Time for lunch!"  
  
"H'mm? Wha . . .Oh, hi buddy," Gary mumbled, still groggy. "Lunch? Is it . . .?" Then it hit him. Gary shot upright, eyes wide, looking around in surprise. He looked at his watch, which he had strapped around his cast. "Oh, man! It's after . . . Why'd you let me sleep so long, Mom? I gotta get to Union Station before . . .! Oh, Buddy! Sorry about lunch, I'll try to make it up to you. How's about supper? Mom, can you get us reservations at The Saloon? I should be back before six. An hour to shower and change, we could make it by seven-thirty, eight. Better make it eight. For the four of us. My treat. Gotta go." All this was said as he jumped up from the sofa, wincing slightly, grabbed his jacket and slipped it carefully over his injured arm. He finished his rapid little speech as he headed out the door.   
  
Buddy sat where Gary's sudden explosion of movement had landed him, flat on his butt on the floor, staring open-mouthed at the closing door. He looked up at Bernie and Lois with a 'What'd I do?' expression.  
  
"Did I hit the wrong button?" he asked, a little dazed. "Or does he always wake up like that?"  
  
"Not always," Bernie sighed. "But often."  
  
**************************  
  
Steve Rossellini sat in the rental car parked across the street from McGinty's. His partner, Angelica Chaste was speaking urgently into a cell phone from her vantage point just down the street. They had just gotten in from the West Coast that morning, and had stopped by the bar for a quick lunch before reporting to their client's 'representative'. When they had seen the young man waiting tables in a red checked shirt, blue jeans and snake skin boots, Steve's heart almost stopped. It couldn't be! Angel had plugged him dead on! One in the heart. One in the head. Just like he'd been tryin' to teach the stupid kid! 'Served him right, too!' The Rose mused. 'Thinkin' he was in love with his target! Dumb, stupid . . . kid!'  
  
But Angel had seen him too. And had been just as shocked. He hadn't been her first kill. Just her first in cold blood. The poor sap was actually proposing marriage to her when she blew him away! Talk about cold! That had impressed The Rose more than her taking out Nicky and his soldiers. They had been trying to kill her, so she was only defending herself. But Tony had dropped his gun and was pouring his heart out to her. So . . . she shot him. The first shot had caught him right in the heart. The second smack between the eyes. The kid died with a glazed look of surprise that Steve could still see if he closed his eyes.  
  
So . . . that couldn't have been Tony Greco waiting tables in McGinty's. It had to be his twin. It had to be, or he was a dead man. He and Angel would probably share the same grave.  
  
Angel jumped back into the car, slamming the door. "That was Uncle Vinnie," she told him. "Seems he just saw a certain dead man while he was coming out of Angelo's just a little before noon. This guy, who happens to look like said corpse, pushes him out of the way of some falling bricks, keeps him from falling to the ground, and then disappears into the crowd! Uncle Vinnie wants to know if we left anymore walking dead behind us. Uncle Vinnie . . . is angry."  
  
"And what, pray tell, does Uncle Vinnie want us to do about it?" Steve asked sarcastically.  
  
"He wants proof," Angel replied. "Either Tony Greco's moldering corpse, or a fresh one. And, if it's fresh, he wants to know why."  
  
Steve looked at her in bemused amazement. "He wants us to off a guy that he says just saved his life?" he asked. Turning back to watch the bar, he added, "Hunh! That's gratitude for you. You know, that could lead to some really bad karma."  
  
"And if we don't," Angel reminded him, "it could lead to an early retirement. For both of us. I say we just grab the guy when he comes out, find out who he is, then kill him. Take Uncle Vinnie his head."  
  
The Rose thought about it as he watched the front of McGinty's. "Sounds like a plan to me," he shrugged. "Whoops! There he goes! Say! I wonder why he ditched the boots!" The figure in the black peacoat was wearing Reeboks.   
  
"Who cares," the redhead shrugged. "Maybe he's going for a run. Just grab him so we can get this over with. I wanted to take in a show tonight."  
  
"Yeah? Which one?" Steve asked as he pulled into traffic.  
  
"Hadn't made up my mind yet," she told him. "I'm thinking maybe that new one with Julia Roberts. I hope it has a happy ending," she sighed. "I'm a sucker for romance."  
  
*************************  
  
Gary got to Union Station just minutes after the two thirty train arriving from Abilene. Muttering in a barely audible voice about the little 'side-trips' the paper had thrown at him, he looked around frantically for the subject of his next 'errand.' In the distance, he saw his quarry, a man dressed in jeans, checked flannel shirt, and a black Stetson with an eagle feather sticking out of the band. He had a carryall in one hand and a western saddle in the other. A pair of battered western boots finished off his casual outfit. As Gary rushed towards him, a baggage handler lost control of his cart. Unnoticed by the cowboy, who had stopped to talk to a pretty blonde woman, the fully loaded cart was headed straight for him! The two were so wrapped up in their conversation, they did not hear, or were paying no attention to, the frantic shouts of the handler!  
  
In a flying tackle that would have gotten him on the first string of the Bears, Gary knocked both of them out of the way of the careening cart! The three of them sprawled across the floor as the wheeled behemoth crashed into the wall less than three feet away! Bags and boxes flew everywhere! Gary found himself pinned face down by a large steamer trunk that had tipped off the cart and landed with bruising impact across his back and legs. 'God! What have they got in this thing? Bricks?' He tried to push himself up with his good hand, but could not get enough leverage. Did he just feel something grate in his ribcage?  
  
"Hang in there, pal," someone was saying. "We'll have that off in a sec . . . Well, I'll be damned!"   
  
All Gary could hear after that was the blood pounding in his temples as he fought for breath. 'Please don't let anything be broken,' he prayed. 'I've got enough broken bones!'   
  
***************  
  
Clay Treyton stared open-mouthed at the man who lay pinned under the huge steamer trunk. The man who had just saved their lives. Could this be him? The man he had been searching for these past two years? With a mental shake, he leaped into action. Grabbing one end of the huge piece of luggage and bracing his legs, he lifted up, only to find it was too heavy. 'Christ! What've they got in this thing?' he wondered. He tried again, only to admit defeat seconds later. "Hang in there, pal," he gasped. "I'll . . . I'll get some help."  
  
"Help is coming." The pretty blonde he'd been talking to pointed at the baggage handler and a uniformed officer running in their direction.   
  
The lead man took one look at Clay and did a double take. "Mr. Hobson?" he asked. To his surprise, it was the man under the luggage who replied with a breathless, "Here!"   
  
It took two men to lift the end of the trunk high enough for the third to pull the trapped man out from under it. At first, it was all the man could do to draw air into his lungs. Clay and the officer knelt by his side as he struggled to catch his breath. Very carefully, they turned the injured man onto his back, to ease the pressure on his straining lungs.  
  
"There's an ambulance on the way," someone said from the growing crowd.   
  
"S'okay," the man on the floor gasped, finally opening his eyes. The first thing he saw was Clay staring down at him from beneath his battered Stetson. His eyes widened as he mouthed a silent 'Whoa!'   
  
"Likewise," Clay grinned. "Clay Treyton," he added, sticking out his hand.   
  
"G-Gary Hob . . . Hobson," he stammered.   
  
"This is so weird!" the young officer exclaimed. "You two could be twins!"  
  
"You d-don't know . . . the half of . . . of it," Gary panted, closing his eyes once more. "What was in that thing? Christ! It didn't h-hurt this bad . . . when the r-roof caved in . . . on me . . . coupla years . . . years ago." He reached a hand out to the officer. "I'll be . . . okay in a s-second. Just help . . . help me up, please."  
  
"Not a chance, Mr. Hobson," the officer said, placing a hand gently, but firmly, on the injured man's chest. "You will go to the hospital this time." Turning to Clay, he introduced himself. "John Tate. Mr. Hobson wasn't in that great of a shape just a few hours ago. Almost collapsed on the street," he explained.  
  
Gary winced and groaned something that sounded to Officer Tate like, "Oh, man!"   
  
'Busted,' Gary thought ruefully. Rubbing his good hand over his sore ribs, he mentally added, 'In more ways than one.'  
  
Less than ten minutes later, two paramedics came rushing in pulling a gurney loaded with gear. The man in the lead spotted Clay first, still talking with Officer Tate. "Hey, Mr. Hobson," he called in greeting. To his surprise, it was the man on the floor who waved a hand in answer. "Mr. Hobson?"  
  
"Keep tellin' you," Gary mumbled. "It's 'Gary'. 'Mr. Hobson' . . . is my dad. How ya been, Lenny?"  
  
"A lot better than you, from the looks of things." As Lenny set up his equipment, he found it hard to keep his eyes off the other man who looked so much like his patient. "I thought you were an only child?"  
  
"I am," Gary replied. "But I'm beginning to think, ouch! that I was cloned."  
  
"Sorry," The other EMT apologized as she continued to probe. "A little tender on the left," she reported. "So, what was it this time? Another mugging?"  
  
"R-runaway baggage cart," their patient replied. "Trunk flipped over on me. Thought you'd be, unh! on your honeymoon, by now, Barb. Didn't you get married last week?"  
  
"That's next week," she told him with a smile as she continued to examine him. "Don't forget, you're invited. Some bruising across the lower back, Lenny. Respirations sixteen and shallow." She quickly strapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm and began inflating it. "You know, it would be nice if you could make it on your own two feet," she added, then paused, one finger to his lips, as she listened. "BP 160 over 75. Pulse 76. Have you met my fiancé, yet?"  
  
"No. Is he . . .whoa!" That last came out in a painful wheeze.  
  
"Make that real tender on the left, just below and lateral to the scapula," Barb amended her earlier statement.  
  
Clay and Officer Tate, in the meantime, listened in growing bewilderment. How many times had this scene been played out, they wondered?   
  
"He, um, does this often?" Treyton asked the young policeman.   
  
"Damned if I know," Tate replied, engrossed in the action taking place before him. "Just laid eyes on him for the first time this morning. But from the sound of it, I'd have to say . . . yes."  
  
*************  
  
Steve and Angel were again stuck sitting in the car as the ambulance pulled out. Their quarry had eluded them a few blocks from the bar. They had picked him up again near Franklin and Lower Wacker, only to lose sight of him near the bus terminal, and then pick him up again at the Mercantile Exchange.   
  
"Where the Hell is this guy going?" Steve had asked at one point. "He's all over the place."  
  
"Maybe he's sight seeing?" Angel shrugged. "He's been away for a while."  
  
"He's supposed to be dead," Rossellini reminded her. "Besides, at the rate he's moving, he hasn't taken the time to see squat. Damn! He's gone again! Tony was never that good before!"  
  
"Maybe he's picked up a few tricks since I killed him," the redhead commented dryly. "Let's try the Sears Tower. If he's not there, we head for the train station."  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"How should I know?" she snapped peevishly. "This is your turf, not mine. What's the nearest one?"  
  
"Union," Steve nodded. "It's right across the river from the Tower. Why the train station?"  
  
"Why not?" she shrugged. "If he keeps up this pace, it's either that or the El."  
  
They had arrived at Union Station just in time to see the ambulance arrive. Minutes later, they had to watch in frustration as their target was wheeled out on a gurney and loaded into the back.   
  
"That can't be Tony," Steve Rossellini sighed. "It just can't be."  
  
"Why not?" Angel asked. "It sure looked like him."  
  
"Tony was never this lucky. Or this good," the Rose explained. "The kid could shoot, was great with knives, whatever. He still couldn't catch a break. And he couldn't shake a tail worth crap. If this is Tony, he's learned a hell of a lot since you killed him!"  
  
******************  
  
Gary lay quietly on the stretcher, only grunting now and then as the doctor probed another sore spot. He sure seemed to have a lot of them, this time. His gaze kept drifting over to the figure talking with Officer Tate in the corner, his Stetson pushed back slightly from his face. This was getting spooky. How many of him were there? 'Mom and Dad are going to have a fit!' he thought ruefully. Still, his lips twitched in a mischievous smile as he imagined the looks on their faces when he showed up with Clay. Talk about your Kodak moments!  
  
Dr. Carter chose that moment to find a really sore spot! Gary paled as the pain stole his breath away. Did he feel something grate in there?  
  
"I take it that hurt?" Carter commented dryly.  
  
"Oh yeah!" Gary wheezed. "Like a son of a . . . It hurt." He gingerly reached around and touched the spot just under his left shoulder blade that had sent a white-hot lance of pain through his chest.   
  
"You're lucky," the doctor told him, as he continued to probe. "If you'd re-opened that wound, your mom would slaughter both of us."  
  
"T-tell me about it," Gary grunted. "I'll be hearing about this for weeks."  
  
"So don't tell her . . . " Gary gave Carter a pained look. "You're right," he sighed. "She'll know before you get in the door. I don't suppose you've considered not getting hurt?" Another 'look'. "It's a thought, okay?" He finished prodding Gary's ribs and turned to the nurse. "Okay, let's get him to x-ray and see how many he broke this time."   
  
"Right away, Doctor." The young nurse took the written order and left.  
  
"X-ray?" Gary repeated cautiously. "Who's on today?"  
  
Carter looked at his watch. "Let's see," he mumbled. "After three, so day shift is winding down. Probably Polly and Jolene. Why?"  
  
Gary breathed a sigh of genuine relief as he cautiously sat up. "Last time it was Gus and Deanna," he explained. "Those two were a tag team from hell. I haven't met Jolene yet, but Polly's okay. She's kinda funny."  
  
"You know all the techs by first name?" Tate asked in astonishment.  
  
"And most of their children," Carter muttered under his breath.   
  
"I heard that," Gary retorted with a wry grin. "And Polly doesn't have any children. Jeff has four, Karen two, and Liz is still on maternity leave from her second. A girl, wasn't it?"  
  
"Victoria Elaine," a voice spoke up from the doorway. Everyone turned to see a somewhat stocky woman in her forties pushing a wheelchair. She wore wire-rimmed glasses, with her dark-blonde hair pulled back in a bun. She looked from the man on the table to the man she had almost run into. Without batting an eye, she brought the chair on into the room and motioned for Gary to have a seat. "Can't you stay out of trouble, Hon?" she drawled in her heavy southern accent. "We got tongues waggin' all over town. Folks are sayin' we're sweet on each other."  
  
As Gary eased down from the table, he had to smile at her banter. "I don't need the chair, Polly," he told her. "I can walk."  
  
Polly just gave him a look. With a martyred sigh, Gary sat in the chair. Before his bare back could touch the cold vinyl, Polly slipped a towel over the back of the chair. Her passenger settled back with a slight grimace. He cast an amused glance at Clay, then looked up at the tech.  
  
"You sure you've got the right one, Polly?" he teased.  
  
"Sweetie," she quickly replied, "by now, I know you better than your momma. And he ain't you." She turned to smile at his double. "Howdy, Clay. How's the shoulder?"   
  
"It, uh, it's fine," the cowboy stammered. "Have we met?"  
  
"Houston Metro," she reminded him. "Right after that bull tried to stomp you into the mud. It's the feather, sweetie. I told ya, nobody wears feathers anymore." Polly turned to face Dr. Carter, who was busily writing on Gary's chart. "Bilateral ribs?"  
  
He shook his head. "He's only tender on the left," he told her without looking up. "And a lumbar spine. He's got some bruising across the lower back."  
  
The genial tech just smiled and nodded. As she wheeled her patient out the door, they could hear her say something that got a pained chuckle out of Gary.  
  
Clay Treyton watched their retreating backs until they rounded the corner. "She didn't seem . . . surprised," he observed. "About the resemblance, I mean." He sounded disappointed.  
  
Carter looked up finally. "Who? Polly?" he asked. "She's been in this business a long time. And she's pretty much seen it all."  
  
******************  
  
"Hi," Steve Rossellini smiled at the receptionist. "Maybe you can help me. A friend of mine was just brought in from Union Station. Could you tell me what room he's in?" When the girl hesitated, he plunged on, adlibbing outrageously. "See that red-head over there? That's his wife and she's really worried about him. Today is their anniversary, you see, and . . "  
  
"Room three," the girl informed him with a smile. "But I'm afraid he's not there. I just saw him being taken to x-ray about twenty minutes ago. He should be back soon though."  
  
"Thanks," Steve smiled in return. "We'll wait out here." He strolled nonchalantly over to where his partner was studying the directory. "ER x-ray," he told her.  
  
She smiled as she found the listing.  
  
*******************  
  
Polly was just coming out of the darkroom when she noticed the two strangers. The dark-haired man and the red-headed woman were cautiously opening doors and peeking inside before they ducked in, only to emerge seconds later. The way they both kept one hand concealed instantly set her teeth on edge. 'Those two are up to no good,' she reasoned. And, with his luck, it probably had something to do with Gary. Apparently, they had yet to spot her standing in the darkroom doorway, so she kept perfectly still until the next time they ducked into a room. It was only one door down from the exam room in which her patient lay. The second the door closed, she quickly crossed the few steps and locked the door behind her. Less than a second later, she had also locked the door to the adjoining exam room.  
  
"Polly? What's wrong?" Gary asked, alarmed by her actions.  
  
"Nothing to worry your head about, sweetie," she assured him as she grabbed the phone. "We need a security team in the ER x-ray corridor," she said into the phone, voice pitched low enough to keep her patient from hearing. "Now! A man and a woman, both wearing black long coats, acting highly suspicious." Someone pushed at the locked door. "No, I didn't see any weapons, but they're searching for something and I have a patient who'll be testifying against a high profile criminal soon. Now get someone down here pronto or pray I don't survive long enough to find you!" She hung the phone up with a muttered, "Jerk!"  
  
"Open the door!" a woman's voice ordered. "Open it now, or I'll shoot the lock out!"  
  
"You're welcome to try," Polly replied as she calmly crossed her arms and leaned against the wall by the phone. "It might take ya a few minutes though. Ya'll are lookin' at two inches of solid oak with a core of lead in a steel doorframe. Oh, and that's a three inch deadbolt."  
  
Their reply was three loud reports in rapid succession. Followed by a stream of vulgar profanities when they learned the truth of her words.  
  
"Do you kiss your momma with that mouth?" she taunted them. "I've already called security, so ya'll might wanna hightail it!"  
  
Gary, meanwhile, had scrambled off the table before the echoes from the first shot had died. He now stood protectively between Polly and the door, clutching at his injured side.  
  
"Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked her patient.   
  
"What do you think?" he snapped. "I'm not gonna let 'em hurt you, Polly!"  
  
"That's sweet of you, Gary," Polly smiled. "but like I told them, they ain't gettin' through that door. Now you just sit yourself in that chair and, as soon as security gives us the all clear, we'll get you back to the ER."  
  
**************  
  
"I want that b- . . .!" Chaste snarled as they pelted down the corridor just a few turns ahead of the armed security team. "I want her head mounted on my damned wall!"  
  
Steve grabbed her arm and yanked her out the fire exit, as he replied. "Worry about her after we get him!"  
  
*************  
  
Polly calmly wheeled a shaken Gary back to the ER under the watchful eye of two security guards and Officer Tate. 'So that's where he disappeared to,' Carter mused. Puzzled, Dr. Carter accepted the packet of films she handed him. As soon as her patient was safely back in his bed, she waved cheerfully and turned to go.   
  
"Thanks, Polly," Gary called after her. "You're a lifesaver. For real."  
  
"That's what I'm here for, sweetie," she replied with a smile. She turned to the security guards with a stern expression. "He's in your care, now," Polly told them in no uncertain terms. "Anything happens to him, I will hunt you down like dawgs. Do you understand?"  
  
"Y-yes, Ma'am.," the burly senior guard responded nervously. "He's safe with us."  
  
"He'd better be." Polly turned back to Gary with a tiny smile. "These gentlemen will look after you now, Gary. They'll make sure you get home safe and . . . Well, it's too late for 'sound,' I guess. Catch ya later." With a smile and a wave at the others, she was gone.  
  
Gary watched her go with a bemused smile. Polly usually came across as a sweet-natured, down home, country girl. Tonight, he had seen a bit of the crafty, no-nonsense backwoods girl she must have been, and a major protective instinct!  
  
"Something we should know about?" Carter asked one of the guards as he studied the films.   
  
"Some shots fired in the x-ray corridor," the guard replied. He quickly explained the actions the tech had taken in order to protect her patient. "Remind me not to get on her bad side," he added. "She almost beaned me with a cassette when I unlocked the door without announcing myself."  
  
Gary was starting to squirm as five sets of eyes stared at him.   
  
"What? I don't know who they were!" he blurted nervously. "I never even saw their faces!"  
  
"Well, they must know you," he was informed by Tate. "Ms. Gannon thinks it might have something to do with somebody you may have to testify against."  
  
Gary rubbed his good hand over his face with a sigh. Could it have been someone acting on Sung's orders? It didn't really make any sense. The videotape evidence was too damning on its own. Killing him would just up the ante at this point. Would the Tong leader really risk a death sentence just to avoid a life sentence? The answer to that was a resounding 'yes!' The man would kill on a whim.   
  
"She could be right," he finally admitted. "God! When did my life get so messed up?"  
  
"Would someone care to fill me in?" Clay asked of anyone in general. "I'm a little new on the scene if you recall."  
  
"God, that's right," Gary apologized. "You just walked in on the middle of this. I'm supposed to testify in a murder trial sometime soon. He's sent hit men after me before, but we thought I'd be safe once he was behind bars for trying to kill me. On video tape, no less."  
  
"Ask him for the condensed version," Carter suggested with a grin. "What was it? 'Little kid, empty warehouse, rival gangs, bang bang, here I am.' Or words to that effect. You've got two rib fractures just under your left arm," he told his patient. "And a couple more that are cracked. We'll strap those up for you. You still have plenty of pain meds?" Gary just nodded as the young physician began wrapping a broad elastic bandage around his chest. "Are you taking them?"  
  
"Wh-when I need to," Gary grunted. "Leave a little room to breathe, Doc. And that was 'bop bang, here I am.' "  
  
"You sure?" Carter asked. "'Bop, bang?' Not 'bang bang?'"  
  
"Definitely 'bop, bang.'" Gary nodded cautiously. "First they beat me, then they shot me. 'Bop. Bang.'"  
  
"Hmm, that makes sense. Sort of."  
  
"What brings you to Chicago, Mr. Treyton?" Officer Tate spoke up. He had been listening to the exchange with one ear, while getting a more detailed report on the shooting from the two guards. So that was why Hobson was such a mess!  
  
"Hmm? Oh! I just found out a coupla years ago that I had a twin," the young cowboy responded. "I've been looking' for him ever since, but I kept hittin' dead-ends. Then I met some fella out in Las Vegas that thought I was this buddy of his from Chicago. Seemed pretty sure of himself. So, I figured I should come check it out. And who should come barrelin' into me not five minutes after I get off the train?"  
  
"Well, I hate to be the one to b-break it to you," Gary said with another painful grunt, "but I know who my parents are, and have the blood tests to prove it. Dad had to donate blood for me not too long ago. Does this have to be so tight?" Carter just grinned and kept wrapping. "Anyway," he added at Clay's crestfallen look, "I think there's someone you need to meet before you go anywhere else. See, there's this other guy at my place who's looking for his family. And he's also from Texas."  
  
*******************  
  
Gary eased the rear door open, peering around cautiously before entering the office. As soon as he was sure the room was empty, he motioned for his 'other twin' to enter.   
  
"They're probably still upstairs," Gary told him in a near whisper. He adjusted the fake cast on Clay's left arm before swapping his black peacoat for the cowboy's denim jacket.   
  
"You sure they won't see right through this?" Clay asked hesitantly. "I mean, they're your folks!"  
  
The young barkeep looked over his handiwork with a wicked grin. "Mom, maybe," he admitted. "Dad? I think we can count on him not to catch on right away. Just remember to act kinda tired. Mom knows I had some pain meds on an empty stomach earlier. She'll be worried about that, and watching you like a hawk. And try not to talk much. You and I don't exactly have the same kinda accent. Mumble a lot. That should help." His grin broadened as he pictured their faces. "This'll get them back for a certain 'surprise' party they threw me a coupla years ago."  
  
"Must've been a hell of a party," Clay mumbled as they headed for the stairs.  
  
"You have no idea," Gary assured him.  
  
Treyton used the time it took to climb the stairs to 'get into character,' so to speak. Gary lagged a few steps behind, so that he would not be visible through the open door. The moment the door closed behind Clay, however, he crept the rest of the way up the stairs and gingerly lowered himself to a crouching position by the door that Clay had left cracked so he could see and hear.   
  
"About time you showed up," Bernie remarked the moment Clay walked into the room. "You barely left yourself enough time for a shower."  
  
Clay mumbled something that Gary couldn't make out and headed towards the bathroom.   
  
"Just a minute, Gary," Lois said as she rose to block his path. She put a hand to his forehead. "No fever. Look at me, son. You look a little . . ." There was a long drawn out moment of silence as she studied the face of the man standing before her. The scratches! He'd forgotten about the faint scars he still had from getting a face full of stone chips at the Center!. This was it. She was on to them. Gary slowly straightened up and leaned casually against the wall by the door, trying hard to suppress the grin that wanted to spread itself all over his face. He was already picturing what she would do next. She was going to try to catch him by surprise by creeping up and yanking the door open . . .now. The door was jerked open with a suddenness that would have left him sprawled on the floor if he had not been anticipating it. Instead, he was treated to the almost unheard of spectacle of seeing his mother speechless.  
  
"Oh, Luucy," he said in his best 'Ricky Ricardo' voice, "you got some 'splainin' to do."   
  
**********************  
  
"This is getting ridiculous," Lois Hobson fumed as she glared at the three young men seated on the couch. If it weren't for the cast on Gary's arm, she would have a devil of a time knowing her son from the other two. They were identical! Right down to the birthmark just below their right sideburns! "I've heard people say a thousand times, 'I just have one of those faces.' I never for one minute thought that would apply so . . .perfectly . . .to my own son! Gary, what is going on here?"  
  
"How the He. . .sorry, Mom. How the heck should I know? I'm just as stunned by this as you two are," Gary told them. "Think how I feel? I've been an only child my entire life! Boom! I'm triplets!" He leaned forward a little, careful to favor his sore ribs, and waved his right hand in a questioning gesture. "Mom . . .Dad . . .are you absolutely sure there's not . . . something . . .I should know?  
  
"No, Gary, there is not." Frustrated, Lois turned to one of the other young men. "So, tell me your story, young man," she said.  
  
"Well, you already know my story, Lois," Buddy replied, puzzled.  
  
Biting her lower lip to keep from screaming, Lois turned to the man on the other side of her son. "Mr. Treyton?" she asked from between clenched teeth. "You're looking for . . .someone?"  
  
"Yes'm," the young cowboy replied. "See, muh momma took sick and died a coupla years ago. Before she passed on, she told me how she'd run off from home when she was real young to take up with this travelin' man. When she came up in a family way, he took off. Dumped her in a little West Texas town that was too small to even have a name. Just a coupla stores and a boarding house. The landlady took pity on her and let her work for room and board as long as she could. It was a coupla years later that she met my step-dad. He was a decent enough fella, treated her right. Did his best to raise me proper. But I always . . . They smothered me. Like they were afraid to let me out of their sight. Even when my sister came along, then a few more young'uns, they watched me like a hawk. I couldn't . . .I couldn't breathe for the way they hovered all over me! So I . . . I tried to push everyone away. Got into trouble every chance I got. Even did a year in the state pen, I was such a mess. That was what finally set me on the right track, I think." He paused, remembering. "Almost got me killed, too. But I learned enough to make it big on the rodeo circuit. Took the 'All 'Round' three years runnin'. Anyway, when Ma knew she was dyin', she finally told me why . . .why she feared for me so much."  
  
He looked over at the other two. "I was a twin," he told them. "Ma was told the other baby had died. That he was too weak to hang on. It wasn't until a month later that she found out that one of the delivery room nurses had made a deal to sell my brother. Seems she'd done it before. Several times, it turned out. This time, though, she never returned from making her deal. She was last seen somewhere around Killeen, the same night it was hit by a tornado. Ma gave up then, believing her other baby was killed along with the witch that stole 'im. And she hung on to me for dear life."  
  
"And you took up the search after she died," Bernie surmised. "I take it you thought our Gary was your twin?"  
  
"Wouldn't you?" Clay snorted. "I mean, lookin' at him was like starin' at myself in a mirror! I was sure he was my brother, 'til he told me about Buddy. Once I heard of a baby bein' found in the area the same night my brother disappeared, I just knew it had to be him."  
  
"And what led you to come looking for your twin in Chicago?" Lois asked, arms crossed. She was still not sure what to make of all this.  
  
"Some funny little dude with a real pretty blonde on his arm," Clay replied. "I was in Las Vegas a few weeks ago, and we met in that new casino that looks like a pyramid. He was all over me at first. Callin' me Gar this and Gar that. Askin' me how I was and what was I doin' out of Chicago. And then he asked somethin' about who was takin' care of the paper. Hell, I expected you to be a publisher or an editor on some newspaper, Gary. It took some doin', but I finally got to speak my piece and managed to convince both of 'em I wasn't you. That fella sure likes to hear himself talk."  
  
Lois and Bernie exchanged a knowing glance. Chuck. It couldn't be anyone else.   
  
"So," Bernie mused, "you came to Chicago on the off chance that this guy wasn't blowin' smoke in your eyes."  
  
"I had to," Clay replied earnestly. "If there was any chance . . . Wouldn't you?"  
  
Buddy had been listening in stunned silence. This was . . .unreal. Way beyond coincidence.  
  
"I was found just outside of Fort Hood," he told the other man in a numb monotone. "Next to a wreck so twisted, they couldn't tell what it was."  
  
"I know," Clay told him in a strained voice. "But I could never find where you went after that. And, Lord help me, I tried."  
  
The estranged twins stared at each other over Gary. It was as if he had disappeared from the room, at least as far as they were concerned. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Gary rose and took his mother by the arm.  
  
"Let's leave 'em alone for a few minutes," he murmured to both of his parents. "They've got a lot of catching up to do. A lifetime's worth." He was unable to conceal a wince as he turned her towards the door.  
  
"How many ribs this time?" Lois quietly asked.  
  
"Two," Gary admitted. "And a couple of cracks. Look, I've still gotta clean up, and those two may be talkin' for hours. What say we cancel our reservations and eat downstairs? I can have Dave or Carlos fix whatever you like. Even if it's not on the menu."  
  
"Gnocchi?"  
  
"Yes, Dad," Gary sighed. "Even gnocchi."  
  
*******************  
  
Clay and Buddy talked way into the night. It was well after sunset before either twin realized that Clay had not even gotten a place to stay. Gary came to the rescue, again, by offering the use of his loft.   
  
"You guys can take the bed," he told them. "I'll be fine on the sofa."  
  
"With cracked and broken ribs?" Clay said with a shake of his head. "No way. You'll keep us up moanin' and groanin' all night."  
  
"Clay's right, Gary," Buddy spoke up. "We can flip for the couch and the chair. No sense puttin' you out of your own bed. I doubt we'll sleep much., anyway."  
  
In fact, the twins got very little sleep that night. Gary didn't sleep a wink. Just not for the same reasons.  
  
Gary was feeling the effects of his long, harrowing day long before the twins realized their dilemma. Exhausted, he was looking forward to crawling into his bed and passing out for a few hours. One last look at the Paper and he could rest with a clear conscience.  
  
"Oh . . . my . . . God!" he murmured in stunned disbelief. The blood drained from Gary's already pale features as he read the banner headline. 'WORLD TRADE CENTER DESTROYED! THOUSANDS FEARED DEAD!' The horrifying article went on to describe how, at approximately 8:45 EST, a passenger jet out of Boston had crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center, to be followed shortly after by a second impact that obliterated the south tower burying rescue workers and victims alike. It went into gruesome detail, including the collapse of the much shorter Tower Seven, a third jet liner crashing into the pentagon, and the heroic sacrifice of the passengers of a fourth plane which would crash in western Pennsylvania, killing all aboard.  
  
Stunned, Gary stared at the picture of devastation, a scene straight from Hell. How could he prevent something this huge? Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was well after ten o'clock. That gave him just a little more than ten hours to find some way to prevent this horror! He thought about the list of contacts he had been given by the covert team operating out of Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado. Perhaps one of them could help. Making an offhand excuse to his guests, Gary practically ran down the stairs and out the back door of McGinty's. A few minutes later he was dialing the first number on a long, frustrating, list.  
  
"Now, how could I get this number, and the codeword, if I was just another . . .? Hello? Hello?" Muttering under his breath, Gary depressed the cut-off button and dialed again, only to have the operator interrupt asking for payment for the last call. Grinding his teeth to keep from saying something he would later regret, he fed a fistful of quarters into the machine, then tried again. This time, they at least let him get as far as the threat to the Pentagon before they laughed and hung up. With a heartfelt prayer for patience and success, Gary fed the phone and tried again. It was going to be a long night.  
  
****************  
  
The sun was coming up as Gary stumbled back to McGinty's for more quarters. He could have called from the bar, but that would've made it too easy to trace the call back to him. The code number and password he had been given was supposed to have gotten him immediate action, no questions asked. Yeah. Right. Looking at his watch with tired, bloodshot eyes he saw that he had just under an hour to try to ground those planes. In the meantime, he also had to deal with whatever else today's . . . no tomorrow's Paper had in store for him.  
  
Stumbling up to the loft, he spied the cat sitting serenely at the head of the stairs, the Paper by its side. As he approached, the tabby stretched lazily and sauntered towards the door.  
  
"Not so fast, furball," Gary hissed. "You can't dump something like this on me, then walk away. How'm I supposed to deal with something this big when I can't get anyone to listen?" He shook yesterday/today's Paper at the cat for emphasis. "Thousands are gonna die, and I can't do anything!"  
  
The cat rubbed up against Gary's ankles, rubbing his orange head against jeans-clad legs as if in sympathy.   
  
"That's fine for you," Gary grumbled, snatching up that day's 'assignment,' "but I still have to try and solve this mess, and it's not even my territory!" The damning headline still stretched across the front page. The scene of devastation had no less impact for being a day older. At least there was some speculation as to the identity of the hijackers, but that was all. Nothing that would give him any clue as to what he could do to prevent the attack.  
  
A quick check on his two guests revealed them to be deeply, and noisily, asleep. Gary had been hesitant to even open the door. Their rumblings could be clearly heard from the hallway! Leaving the twins to their slumber, he returned to the first floor, where he scanned tomorrow's Paper.  
  
There wasn't much new in the Paper for this morning. A guy slipping on spilt coffee at a local Starbucks, breaking his tailbone. And a cashier in a local fast food restaurant was going to be shot in a hold-up. Two more workers would be found locked in the freezer. Both took place fairy early. He would still have time to make a few phone calls. If only he could get someone to listen!  
  
********************* 


	2. Dealing With Disaster

Steve Rossellini was again parked across from McGinty's. Angel was at the payphone down the street rescheduling the meeting with their client. Steve was sure he was less than pleased that they had not shown last night. There was just no way he was going to ignore a summons from Uncle Vinnie. Not while any of his brain cells were still functioning. There were worse ways to die than a bullet to the head. And Vinnie had people who knew all of them. So far, their only clue to this Tony look-alike was that he worked at this bar. Sooner or later, he would have to come back to work. Speak of the devil. Angel saw him too, and came rushing back to the car.   
  
"Don't let him get away this time!" she snapped. "If we don't meet our client by ten o'clock, we lose the hit."  
  
"If he would stop running for more than a minute, I'd cut him off," Steve growled back. "But I can't fight traffic and watch him too. If only we could figure out his pattern!"  
  
"He's not running now," Angel observed as their target started punching buttons on a nearby payphone. "Why doesn't he use the phone in the bar?" she wondered.   
  
"Maybe it's personal call," Steve shrugged. "Or maybe he didn't want anyone listening in. Whoever he's talking to is sure getting an earful."  
  
The man they were following was talking hurriedly and gesticulating wildly. As they watched, he slammed the phone back on it's hook, leaning his head against the device with an air of frustration. Then, glancing at his watch, the dark-haired young man took off down the street.  
  
They followed their prey to a nearby fast food place that had just opened for breakfast. They watched as he ducked inside. He was in there less than five minutes before he came running back out, just as a police cruiser squealed to a halt in front of the place. Both cops ran up with guns drawn. They spoke with the target for a moment, then went rushing into the diner. From where they sat, it was hard to make out what was said, but the cops seemed to know the man fairly well. They even seemed to be on pretty good terms.   
  
"Could he be an informant?" Steve wondered aloud. "Is that why he couldn't kill you? He was a cop all along?"  
  
"He was no cop," Angel snorted. "He was an idiot. Can you imagine proposing marriage after trying to kill me? Stupid fool."  
  
"He also saved your life," Steve reminded her as he pulled back into traffic. "He called to warn you we were coming. And he shot me before I could shoot you. I'd have to say the guy was serious about you. And, did it ever occur to you that what you did was almost as dumb? I was the one with a gun to your head, after all."  
  
"Actually," she shrugged, "it was the other way around. We had to do some serious negotiations, as I recall. What's he doing now? Has he got a phone fetish, or something? This guy makes no sense! He's just running from place to place with no pattern! See? He's off again!" They followed him to a coffee shop, where they were forced to wait until their target reappeared less than a minute later. He was holding a newspaper in his right hand. The left was still hidden in his pocket. "Look! He's going back the way he came! What is with this guy?"  
  
They lost him ten minutes later when he ducked down an alley, only to pick him up again two blocks away at another payphone. Steve considered grabbing the guy off the street. Angel, however, had other ideas. She opened her door and drew her gun. As their unsuspecting target paused to glance at his newspaper, she took careful aim over the hood.  
  
****************  
  
"You gotta listen to me," Gary was pleading into the receiver. "I know what I sound like, but this isn't a crank call. No, I can't leave my name. Look, you have to evacuate the Pentagon! There's going to be an attack in the next . . . No! Don't put me on . . . hold." He cursed vociferously and with feeling as elevator music poured out of the earpiece. This was getting him nowhere! He had to . . . A chill ran up his spine as he pulled the phone away from his ear. Something was . . . On impulse, Gary turned to look at the car parked across the street.  
  
*****************  
  
Suddenly the man they had been pursuing was staring straight back at her with a stunned expression. Angel quickly squeezed the trigger only to have the bullet shatter the earpiece as he jerked his head back. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he dropped the ruined instrument and disappeared down a nearby alley. With a hissing curse, she was after him. When she got to the alley, however, there was no sign of her quarry. The narrow passage was completely empty except for a few cardboard boxes and an overturned dumpster. She ran to the end of the alley, looking both ways down the empty street. No sign of him. Angel angrily kicked aside every box and even looked behind the dumpster. Several times, she walked over a loose manhole cover, paying no attention as it rattled slightly under her feet. No luck. Spitting curses her father would have been shocked she even knew, Angel returned to the car.  
  
"That is not Tony," she snarled. "He knew, Steve. He looked right at me because he knew we were here! I had you and Tony both in my sights for more than ten minutes and you never knew until I started shooting. This guy spots me before I finish aiming! Do you see a difference there?"  
  
"Yeah," Rossellini sighed. "He's better than we are. We'd better report to Uncle Vinnie. By the time he gets through carving off his pound of flesh, it'll be time to go meet our client."  
  
********************  
  
Gary followed the storm drain for several blocks before finally daring to climb through the manhole less than a block from McGinty's. Still shaking from his close call, and gasping for breath from the renewed pain in his ribs from lifting the heavy manhole covers, he slipped quietly into the back door and up to his apartment. To his relief and consternation, both his guests were still sound asleep. At least they had stopped snoring.   
  
He sat down on the bed as he picked up the phone. It had been his intention to try the Pentagon one more time. He'd already been hung up on twice by the WTC security, and had been on the phone with the FBI when that psycho had started shooting at him. And what had that been about?   
  
Glancing at the clock, Gary saw that he had spent too much time evading his pursuers. Turning on the TV, volume low, he watched the news reports with a sinking heart. Dear God! What, or who, could be behind such a heinous act? There had to have been something he could've done to stop this! What about whoever was covering New York now? Had Joey Clams even been replaced? And did Boston have a Guardian? What about Washington? Surely a city as important as the United States capitol had to have its own Guardian! Why had this been allowed to happen?   
  
Feeling numb and helpless, Gary realized he still had to report the shooting, but who should he call? Toni would be all over him to go into 'protective' custody. A polite way of saying he would be watched like a hawk. 'No thank you,' he thought ruefully. And, after that confession the other night, could he really trust Paul? Gary decided he would have to trust one of them. He was in no shape to handle this alone. He also had to think of his guests. What if one of them was to be hurt by mistake? Could he ever forgive himself for letting something happen to either of them?   
  
Gary was saved from his indecision by a knock on the door. Stifling a groan, he pushed himself up, flicking off the TV and sparing a glance towards his 'roomies.' Still out. Hugging his injured side, Gary slowly crossed the short distance to the door. Damn! He must've popped something loose when he yanked so hard on that manhole cover! He was still amazed that he had been able to lift it with one hand. Talk about your adrenaline rush!  
  
The knock was repeated just as he approached the door. Shooting another glance at the two sleeping men, he softly called out, "I'm coming. Just hold your horses."  
  
The rippled glass made it hard for Gary to make out the face on the other side of the door, but he could make out enough to recognize Detective Armstrong. With a martyred sigh, he opened the door just enough to slip out onto the landing.  
  
"Hi, Paul." He greeted the big detective in a glum, quiet voice. "For once, I'm glad to see you. Saved me a phone call."  
  
Armstrong craned his neck in an attempt to see whatever it was Gary was trying to keep him from seeing. "You got company?"  
  
"Yes," Gary told him. "And they're asleep right now. So whatever you came to see me about, we can talk it over in my office." He led the way downstairs, making sure his parents were not within earshot. "Would you like some coffee?" he asked as he reached for the pot behind his desk. Paul shook his head, so Gary went ahead and poured himself a cup, adding a little cream and sugar. "I really need this," he sighed as he savored that first sip. "Now, what can I do for you?"  
  
"Are you alright?" the detective asked in genuine concern. "You seem . . . preoccupied."  
  
"Haven't you heard the news this morning?" Gary asked by way of reply. His coffee suddenly tasted like bile. "About the Trade Center, the Pentagon, all those . . . Christ, Armstrong! How can something like that happen? Anywhere, not just here."  
  
"You're asking me?" the big detective snorted. "I still haven't figured you out! What happened in New York and Washington . . . That . . . I don't have any answers. And I can't lock myself into a round of 'if only,' or 'what could I have done different?' That's a long spiral down the road to madness."  
  
Gary shot the detective a startled look. "Philosophy?" he chuckled dryly. "From you? The world is full of surprises today." He pushed his half-cooled cup to the side. "So, answer the question. What can I do for you?"  
  
"You can tell me about those two at the hospital last night," Armstrong eyeing him curiously. "We had that woman, Polly Gannon, downtown all morning giving a statement and going through mug shots. She's with the sketch artist right now."  
  
"Aw, Christ, Paul!" Gary protested. "She was working a double shift last night! Leave her alone!"  
  
"Can't," he replied with another headshake. "She's our only eyewitness. Besides, she threatened to castrate the officer who let anything happen to you. Seems you have a fan," he added with a wry smile.  
  
"We've gotten to be pretty good friends," Gary admitted with a lopsided grin. "I think she wants to adopt me. As to last night, I heard two voices, a man and a woman, and a few gunshots. And that woman had a mouth on her! Last time I heard language like . . . I don't think I've ever heard filth like that come from a woman!"  
  
"You lead a sheltered life, then," Armstrong mumbled. "Have you received any threats, or warnings?"  
  
Gary picked up a pen and began rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, using the time to marshal his thoughts. "That's what I was about to call you about," he finally admitted. "I didn't see those two last night, but I may have seen the woman this morning." Without explaining why he was where he was, Gary told Paul about the shooting. "I don't know how they found me," he continued, "and I wasn't gonna wait around to ask. As soon as I saw that gun aimed in my direction, I was gone. The shape I'm in, I didn't think I could outrun her. Not for very long, anyway. So I, um, ducked into the storm drains. Th-that's how I got home. Through the drains."  
  
"How . . .how did you get the cover off in time?" Paul asked, amazed. "Those things are a hernia waiting to happen! You'd need a crowbar and an extra pair of hands to lift one!"  
  
"Try doing it one-handed with a killer on your heels," Gary replied distractedly. "I have no earthly idea. I just . . . did it. Anyway, I didn't see the driver, but the woman was . . ." He paused as an image flashed through his mind. An image from his dream. "Oh my Lord." he whispered, stunned. "It was her." Suddenly, he was finding it hard to breathe. He stood up abruptly and began pacing in the limited space behind his desk. He raised his right hand to his lips, then lowered it, making agitated little gestures. A pattern he repeated over and over as he paced. "I've been so . . . so focused on this thing in New York, I almost forgot. I, ahm. I had this . . . this dream last night. It was so weird. I was some . . .somebody else. Not me, if that makes any sense. And . . . and she was there, too. The . . . the woman who shot . . .This other person, the one I was . . . wasn't . . . God! This doesn't make any sense! I . . . he . . . saved her life! Shot someone to . . . to protect her! I c-could feel the gun in my . . . Paul, I hate guns! I've only fired a gun once in my life! I've only touched one a few times! The . . . the first time . . ." 'No,' he thought. 'Don't even go there!' "There that one time to save Crumb and the damned thing fell apart in my hand! And you . . . you remember . . . Savalas," he finished in a strained whisper.  
  
Paul stood up and circled the desk to place himself in Gary's path. He grabbed the frantically pacing man by both shoulders and held him still by force. Gary met his gaze with eyes on the verge of panic. "Stand still and get hold of yourself, Hobson!" he snapped. "Describe the woman. Both in your dream and on the street."  
  
With a shuddering sigh, Gary sat back down. As precisely as possible, he described the woman's physical features as he saw her that morning. Then, he described the dream woman. This time, he went past the physical features, and into the soul of the woman.   
  
"She seems lost, at first," he said. "Sorta . . . childlike. Sad. Ready to die. Then, everything shifts, and she's this hard, cold person. She goes from redhead to blonde and back like a . . . a chameleon. And her eyes are . . . are green. And very . . . intense. Almost . . .hypnotic, I guess. This . . . person that I am . . . in the dream, that is. He feels responsible, somehow, for what she's become. God! It was just a dream!" he finished, rubbing his good hand nervously over his mouth and chin. "But it was still the same woman who shot at me this morning. I'm certain of it."  
  
"So why would she be after you?" Paul asked. "Do you think she was hired by Sung?"  
  
"It's a possibility, I guess," Gary sighed. "But why would I be dreaming about her before I ever laid eyes on her?"  
  
"I can't believe I'm asking this," the big cop sighed, running a hand over his shaved head. "I don't even believe in it myself. Is it possible that you have some kind of . . . precognitive abilities?"  
  
Gary sat back, giving Paul a look that said, for once, it was the cop who was talking crazy.  
  
"You gotta be kidding," he responded. "This from the guy who called me delusional?"  
  
"Then tell me how you do it," Paul insisted. "Tell me how you always seem to know when trouble is about to happen! How you always get there first?"  
  
Without thinking, Gary sprang to his feet again, almost doubling over when his ribs registered a protest at the sudden movement. Breathless, he waved Paul back to his seat when the detective rose to help him. "S'okay," he gasped. "J-just moved too . . . too quick." He paused a moment to catch his breath before continuing. "Wh-what is it with you and secrets? You've been after me on this since the day we met. Can't you just trust me to know what I'm doing . . . usually?"  
  
"Perhaps," Armstrong replied acidly. "If I had some idea of exactly what it is you actually do."  
  
"Isn't it enough to know I'm one of the good guys?" Gary sighed, still gripping his side. He leaned against the wall, propped up by his injured arm. "I've always tried to be straight with you, Armstrong. Or at least as straight as I can." He paused as a grimace of pain flitted across his face. "Christ! This hurts! Do you believe in God?"  
  
"Say what?" Paul asked, surprised at the sudden change in topic.  
  
"It's a simple enough question," Gary stated. "Yes or no. Are you a believer?"  
  
Armstrong sat back as he considered the question. "I would have to say . . . I have my doubts," he finally replied. "There's too much wrong with this world for me too say yes. And too much right with it to say no. So . . . I have doubts. I guess . . . if there were some kind of proof . . . or even some evidence. . ."  
  
"Like a miracle?" Gary chuckled. He shook his head sadly. "I used to be like that. Look at me, Paul. Just the fact I'm alive is miracle enough for me. How many times since you've known me have I been close to death? R-remember when I did die? When that doctor told me it was a 'miracle' that I still had any brain function at all? Hell, I'm beating the odds just by walking! How . . . how many times have I thrown the odds right out the window? Can you . . . can you even count them? I gave up on . . . on that a long time ago. All I can do . . . do now is ride with it a-and . . . see where it takes me. The only control I have over . . . over any of . . . this is to try t-to stop the bad things that will happen if I sit back and do n-nothing." He closed his eyes as another spasm of pain shot through his chest. It was getting harder and harder to take in a breath. Slowly, he eased himself back down in his seat. "This is . . . not good," he gasped.   
  
"You're white as a sheet, Hobson," Armstrong observed, rising quickly. "You need another trip to the ER. Then we need to see about protective custody."  
  
Gary shook his head, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Not un . . . unless you . . . you include m-my two h-house . . . houseguests," he stammered. "Th-they're in as m . . . much d-danger . . . God! C-can't . . . b-breathe!"  
  
Paul grabbed the phone off the desk and dialed 911. He quickly explained the situation, requesting an ambulance ASAP. Then he helped Gary lower himself to the floor, where they quickly learned that lying flat only made it worse. Sitting with his back against the wall proved better, but not by much.  
  
"G-go upstairs," Gary pleaded. "Tell B-Buddy . . . they n-need to s-stay put . . . 'til I . . . get back. Please! I d-don't . . .don't want anymore b-blood on my hands!"   
  
Moments later, a worried Lois led a pair of EMTs into the office. They quickly assessed the situation, doing everything they could to ease Gary's labored breathing. Nothing seemed to help, and his lips started to turn blue as he slipped in unconsciousness.  
  
"No breath sounds on the left," the first medic, who had introduced himself as Johnny, reported. "You said he broke some ribs recently, ma'am?"  
  
"Yesterday," Lois responded absently, unable to take her eyes off the pallid features of her son. "A steamer trunk fell on him. They said it contained books. Lots of books. What's wrong with him?"  
  
"Hard to say, ma'am," he replied coolly. "O2 sat and BP are bottoming out. Tell them we need to get this guy some relief now!"  
  
"They say it could be a pneumo, and suggest a chest tube," the second medic, Chet, relayed. "Doc doesn't think we can wait to transport. He wants it done STAT."  
  
Without another word, Johnny started laying out an array of tubes and bottles. He looked up at Lois. "You might want to step out, ma'am," he told her. "This ain't pretty."  
  
"No way," Lois replied. "Just do it."  
  
With a nod, he motioned for Paul and Chet to hold the faintly struggling patient still. One held his legs down, while the other kept his shoulders pinned. Quickly cutting away the shirt and a layer of bandages, Johnny swabbed a spot on Gary's side just about six inches below his armpit. Then he took a sharply pointed, hollow metal instrument and set it next to Gary. Next he pulled out a piece of rubber tubing about four feet long and as big around as his thumb, and quickly attached a container of sterile water to one end of the tube. Another, shorter piece of tubing also stuck out of the top of the bottle. With a quick, upward jab which elicited a painful grunt from the nearly unconscious man, he slid the metal tube between Gary's ribs. Johnny removed the bloody instrument and slid over a foot of the tubing into the resulting orifice. The results were immediate. A steady stream of bubbles roiled through the container, as Gary took in a huge breath. After that his breathing gradually became less labored, settling down to a more normal rate. Johnny quickly taped a gauze pad saturated with sterile petroleum jelly over the incision and around the tube, making an airtight seal. With each rise and fall of Gary's chest, another rush of air burbled through the container.  
  
Lois sat down in Gary's chair, her knees suddenly weak. "Th-that wasn't so bad," she said with a wan little smile. "He looks better already."  
  
"We'll be taking him to Cook County," Chet informed her and Paul as they loaded Gary's semi-conscious form onto the gurney. "You can meet us there."  
  
"M'm?" A weak, clammy hand clutched convulsively at hers.  
  
"Right here, sweetie," she quickly assured him, taking his hand. "You're going to be fine. These nice young men are going to take you to the hospital, now."  
  
"G'n?"  
  
Lois patted his hand with a strained laugh. "Yes, Gary. Again. Now, just relax and let them do their job."  
  
"W-wait," he moaned. "T-tell Buddy and C-Clay . . . d-don't go out. S-stay put . . . 'til I . . . 'til I get back."  
  
"Sweetie," Lois sighed, "you're going to be in the hospital for a few days, at least. They can't stay shut in that long without knowing why."  
  
"P-Paul can . . ." his throat crackled as he swallowed past the sudden dryness. "Paul knows," he whispered as exhaustion took its toll. His hand went limp as he once again passed out. Lois shot the EMTs a worried look.  
  
"He's just worn out," Johnny reassured her. "His color is better already, and he's breathing easier. The docs can tell you more once they've run some tests. Now, we really need to get going with him."  
  
"Of course," she quickly agreed. As they left, she turned to the big cop. "Paul, Gary said you need to talk to his two guests. I don't know if they're awake yet. He said they were up talking all night. Just go on up anyway. You do remember Buddy Jackson from the hospital last week, don't you?"  
  
"Ah! Of course!" He slapped his forehead. "That's what he's worried about. He doesn't want Buddy getting hurt by mistake!"  
  
"I'm sure you can explain that remark later," Lois observed dryly, as she headed for the door. "However, you should know that there's someone else upstairs, too. His name is Clay Treyton and . . . never mind. You'll just have to see for yourself. I have to go. If you see Bernie, tell him to meet me at Cook County. At this rate, Gary needs to buy stock in the place."  
  
"Better get a lot of it," Armstrong grinned. "It's the only way he'll break even."  
  
"Amen to that!" Lois sighed. "Oh, tell Marissa I'll check in with her as soon as I know anything. Bye." She tossed him a wave as the door closed behind her.  
  
Suddenly finding himself alone, Armstrong decided that Hobson was probably right. Buddy looked enough like him to be just as valid a target as Gary himself. So, with a martyred sigh, he climbed the stairs to Gary's loft. The two men inside must have been sound asleep for it took a lot of pounding to get a muffled response. A moment later the door opened to reveal sleep-swollen, muddy green eyes.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"It's me, Detective Armstrong," he replied. "We met at the hospital last week. When you first met Gary? We need to talk, Mr. Jackson."  
  
The other man just backed up and opened the door wider to admit the big cop. He was bare-chested, wearing a pair of blue sweatpants. "Buddy, it's somebody to see you," he called out as he plopped onto the sofa.  
  
"Just a minute," a voice from the bathroom replied.  
  
Puzzled, Paul looked at the man on the sofa. "Aren't you Buddy Jackson?"  
  
"Nope," came the mumbled reply. "Name's Treyton. Clay to muh friends. Buddy won the toss for the shower. Be out in a minute."  
  
About that time, Buddy emerged from the bathroom wearing Gary's bathrobe and toweling his hair dry.   
  
"Armstrong, isn't it?" the robed figure asked. "What's all the noise downstairs? Is someone hurt?"  
  
Paul looked from him to the man lazing on the sofa and back again, his jaw dropping in amazement. Slowly he backed up until his spine was pressed against the wall.   
  
"Oh . . . my . . . God," he moaned as he slid down to the floor. He placed his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. "Not this. Please not this! One is bad enough! I don't know if I can handle three of him!"  
  
************  
  
"This is beyond weird," Rossellini sighed. They were once more parked near McGinty's. This time, just halfway down the block from the front door. Which gave them a ringside seat as their target was loaded into yet another ambulance. "We finally know for a fact that this guy is not Tony Greco," he continued, "only to be hired to off him anyway." He turned to face his partner. "This guy is worse than Tony! Everybody wants 'im dead!"  
  
"Well, at least this client has a reason," Angel sighed, snuggling deeper into her new fur coat. "It did sort of bother me to know that we were trying to snuff someone just because he looked like someone else." She watched as the ambulance pulled away. "Of course, we could always just sit back and let Hobson do himself in. Poor sap sure seems to have a lot of accidents. Wonder what happened this time?"  
  
"The 'Barfly From Hell'?" Steve said with a shrug. "Who knows? Hey! While we're in the neighborhood, you still wanna take a crack at that broad in x-ray?"  
  
"Oh, yes," his deadly partner purred. "I really want that southern-fried hussy. We almost got caught because of her."  
  
"Consider her a gift then," Rossellini said with an elaborate gesture. "She probably works the night shift, though. We might need to make two trips."  
  
****************  
  
Gary sat back with a sigh. Dr. Carter set aside his stethoscope as he continued to rattle off a countdown of things his patient should not do with two broken, and two cracked ribs.   
  
"And number one is lifting manhole covers one handed," he finished. "Wasn't there anything else you could've done?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary grunted. "Coulda let 'er shoot me. How s-soon . . . can I go home?"  
  
"A few days," Carter replied as he made notes on Gary's chart. "You have a collapsed lung, Gary. That doesn't go away overnight. I've known them to hang in there for weeks. Why? You in a hurry to go someplace?"  
  
"Home! No offense, Doc," the impatient patient began, "but I just got out of here a coupla days ago."  
  
"Should have thought of that before lifting that metal lid," the young doctor grumbled. "You collapsed, Gary, because you had so much air between your left lung and your chest wall, it was shoving everything over to the right. You had almost no room for your right lung to expand. Even your heart barely had enough room to beat! You were suffocating, Gary! As in dying! Again! You are being admitted as we speak. This is not open for discussion. You will remain glued to that bed for at least three days. At which time the tube will be clamped off so that we may see if your lung intends to remain inflated. If it does for at least twenty-four hours, the tube will be removed. If everything goes well for another twenty-four hours, then and only then, will you be allowed to go home. With instructions to remain in bed for at least another forty-eight hours. You will obey these instructions. To the letter. If you end up in my treatment room one more time this month . . ."  
  
"It wasn't my fault!" Gary protested in a strained voice. "She was . . . was shooting . . . Crap! Still hurts." He lay back and just concentrated on breathing for a moment. "I guess I wasn't th-thinking," he finally gasped. "There wasn't . . . wasn't time . . . for plan B."  
  
"Plan B?" Carter asked, curious. "What was plan B?"  
  
"Don't know," Gary said with a tired smile. "Plan A w-worked."  
  
Dr. Carter closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh of frustration. "What am I gonna do with you, Gary?" he moaned. "Plan A almost did the job for them! Do you have any idea how much damage the jagged edge of a broken bone can do to soft tissue, such as lungs, spleen, even kidney? You're lucky you didn't tear another artery!"  
  
"About as much d-damage as . . . as a bullet?"   
  
That stopped him. Carter looked closely at the semi-reclining form of his patient. Gary's grim expression belied his frivolous tone. He could see that the other man was, indeed, aware of the seriousness of his situation.   
  
"Someone is trying to kill me," Gary told him calmly, his voice low and raspy. He sounded tired. Which was understandable, given the circumstances. "And I almost killed myself getting away from them," he added. "N-not that I had a lot of . . . of options. I'll promise to be-behave, but I can't speak for 'Annie O-Oakley.' She seemed pretty determined."  
  
"Which is why you will have a uniformed officer with you 24/7 until we catch her." Gary looked over to the treatment room door to see Paul entering with Officer Tate. "You remember your friend from yesterday? John is going to be your roommate tonight. Another officer will be stationed at your door. Ah! Don't even try to refuse. It's either this or you can explain it to that tech who has such a thing for you. We just passed her in the hall."  
  
Gary winced as he pictured her reaction. Polly could be . . . opinionated, to put it nicely. She could also skin a man alive from ten paces using just her voice. "Got a little . . . vocal, I take it?"  
  
"The atom bomb was a firecracker compared to her temper," Tate grimaced. "She wants to take your shooter down to oncology and see how much cobalt it takes to fry a bleached blonde. I'm not sure if she was kidding! I wanna be there when those two butt heads. It'll be the cat-fight to beat all cat-fights."  
  
"My money's on the tech," Paul grinned.   
  
"Good bet," Carter commented with a matching grin. "Someone actually did threaten one of her patients in front of her a couple of months ago. What made Polly even madder, she had to x-ray the jerk when she was through with him!"  
  
"Don't!" Gary pleaded as he hugged his injured side. "Oh, man! Please don't! It h-hurts to laugh! How bad d-did she hurt him?"  
  
"About two weeks worth," the young physician deadpanned.   
  
"Two weeks?" Tate asked, puzzled. "Two weeks worth of . . .?"  
  
"That was how long it was before he could stand upright without moaning in agony," he explained dryly. "She almost emasculated him with the corner of a cassette. Ms. Gannon does not pull her punches!" He looked up from Gary's chart to find all three men looking at him in disbelief. "She had a good reason!"  
  
Every male in the room winced in sympathy. Message received. Do not underestimate one middle-aged, countrified tech!  
  
"Speaking of tough ladies," Gary gulped, "could I have a few minutes w-with Mom before . . . before you pack me upstairs? There's some . . . some things she'll have to take care of for me."  
  
"No problem," Carter grinned as he finished his notes, flipping the chart closed with a snap. "It'll be a little while before they have your room ready, anyhow. Take your time."  
  
"Oh, Paul! What about . . .?"  
  
"They're fine," Armstrong hastened to say. "They've agreed to protective custody at you're place until you're able to come home. And, do not ever spring a surprise like that on me again!"  
  
"No promises," Gary said with a wan smile. "But I'll try."  
  
A few minutes later, Lois and Gary had their heads together over the paper. They had to talk in whispers so that Tate could not overhear them from his station by the door. Gary asked again if he could speak with his mother privately, but the young officer shook his head stubbornly.   
  
"Not a chance," he said. "After what we just heard, no way am I letting you out of my sight until I'm relieved! I don't want to be the next trophy on Ms. Gannon's wall."  
  
"I'll explain later, Mom," Gary promised. "Trust me, you'll love it."  
  
"I can hardly wait," Lois murmured softly. "So, a two-car accident at 6:43 tonight because one of them is talking to his girl on his cell-phone and not paying attention. Before that, we have the little girl at the zoo who crawls into the water-buffalo enclosure after a toy she drops. Anything else?" Gary shook his head without meeting her eyes. "Gary? What aren't you telling me?"  
  
Gary studied her determined expression from the corner of his eye. Seeing that she was not going to relent, he handed her the paper with a sigh. With some trepidation, Lois opened it to the front page. There, at the top of the page, she read: 'Two Slain In Local Hospital!' The article went on to describe how two armed assailants managed to sneak past security and shoot one Gary Hobson, aged 35, and Pauline Gannon, aged 47. Both victims died instantly. The only witness, a police officer who had been stationed in Mr. Hobson's room at the time of the shooting, was still in critical condition.   
  
"I'm the only one who can stop this one, Mom," Gary told her in a near whisper. "It won't be hard to keep Tate on his toes. He seems to take his job real serious. But I can't guarantee seeing Polly in time tonight. They won't let me out of bed for anything!"  
  
Lois read the article carefully, trying to come up with an answer for her distraught son.   
  
"Would they require an x-ray if you took a turn for the worse?"  
  
"Maybe," Gary mused. "Or they might take me straight to surgery. I'd be okay for a while. That would still leave Polly out in the cold, though. Look, it doesn't happen until almost 6:20. It's just a little after one now. She doesn't go on duty until 2:30, but Paul said he passed her in the hall earlier. I, um, I think she's watching out for me," he added, his face coloring from embarrassment. "A-anyway, could you leave word at the x-ray department for her? Just say that I need to see her before she goes on duty. I'll think of something to tell her by then. Or, better yet, just have her paged. The quicker the better."  
  
"Let's just hope she's still here," Lois mumbled almost too softly for Gary to hear.  
  
"She's got to be, Mom," he sighed. "Polly's . . . well, Polly. I don't think you've met her, yet. She doesn't go out of her way to meet people. Not that she's . . . She's nice, but tough. She was the one who did most of my x-rays after my accident last May. And she's been here almost every other time I've come in."  
  
"Sounds like you have a 'thing' for her," his mother teased.  
  
"No! Mom!" Gary snorted, wincing at the resulting spasm of pain. "Please! She's a f-friend! Can't a man and woman . . . be friends without that becoming an issue? From my own mother, yet!" He laid his head back and closed his eyes with a sigh. "When are you going to stop treating me like a kid?" he asked tiredly.   
  
"When I'm dead, Sweetie" Lois smiled, brushing at the hair that had become sweat-plastered to his forehead. "I'll go find Ms Gannon. You concentrate on getting some rest." She paused as Gary laid the Paper in his lap with a tired sigh. "Something else is bothering you, isn't it?"  
  
Gary turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. Wordlessly, he showed her the front page. Her heart broke in sympathy with his as she read the one headline he had been unable to change. "Oh dear," she murmured. Looking, she could almost feel the pain that showed so clearly on his tired features. "How long have you known?"  
  
"Since last night," Gary told her in a despondent tone. "There must've been a special edition. I tried, Mom," he added, fighting back tears of frustration and grief. "I called every number on my list. Twice. Then I called the airport in Boston. Some wouldn't even listen. The ones that did . . . it didn't make any difference. I couldn't . . . couldn't stop it."  
  
"You tried, Gary," Lois told him, gently cupping his cheek. "I know you did everything you could. It's just that . . . sometimes, our best isn't good enough. That doesn't mean you should give up."  
  
"I didn't say I was giving up, Mom," the injured man sighed. "It's just . . . what good are all these high level contacts if everyone still treats me like a crackpot? All it means is . . . they'll think I had something to do with it! Why did I even bother."  
  
"Because you cared enough to take the risk," Lois told him. "As bad as you feel now, after trying everything in your power, think how bad you'd have felt if you hadn't tried at all?"  
  
Gary turned his head toward the wall as he mulled over what she had said. His mother was right. At least he could honestly tell himself he had tried, even if it meant he would be dragged through another FBI or Secret Service witch hunt. With everything else he had going on, that seemed the least of his worries.  
  
********************************  
  
It was much later that evening when Angel and Stevie made their move. It had taken little effort to learn what floor Hobson was on, and a guard stationed outside was a given. Stevie already had his diversion planned. As for Angel, she was planning on a little trip to x-ray. If all went well, both targets would die at the same time.  
  
Rossellini ducked into a linen closet and quickly donned a set of scrubs. A pair of latex gloves and a filter mask completed his disguise. It was an old ruse, but one that seemed to work every time. In a supply closet just around the corner from Hobson's room, he stuffed a bunch of towels and paper into a wastebasket and dropped a lit match into it. As soon as his little diversion was smoldering nicely, he checked to see if the hall was clear, then proceeded toward his target.  
  
Sure enough, the moment the smoke was noticed, the officer in the hall jumped to grab a fire extinguisher and rushed to the scene. Chortling to himself as to the gullibility of cops, Stevie ducked into Hobson's room. The poor kid was lying back, the head of the bed half raised. His hands twitched spasmodically as he moaned in his sleep. He seemed to be in the midst of a bad dream, and from the look on his face, it was a doozy. It still unnerved him a little just how much this boy resembled Tony Greco, the kid he had spent weeks getting to know, only to end up partnered with his killer. It seemed wrong somehow. Like pulling the trigger on his own kid, almost. Still, a job was a job. With luck, the poor sap would never know what hit him.  
  
The wily assassin quietly drew his gun as he approached the bed, grabbing a towel off the foot of the bed by the door to muffle the noise. This was going to be almost too easy!  
  
Hobson's eyes snapped open with a loud cry. "Angel! No!"  
  
Startled, Rossellini stepped back, pausing just long enough for the bathroom door to slam him halfway back into the hall. Dazed, he barely caught a glimpse of the officer's blue uniform before he turned and sped out the door. Damn! Since when did they start posting guards inside the rooms?  
  
******************  
  
Gary was sitting straight up in the bed, his eyes wide and staring at nothing. His breath was coming in short, rapid little gasps. The panicked look on his face was the same as when Tate had first stopped him in the street the day before. The monitor over his head was showing an alarmingly fast heart rate. Tate was torn. Should he go after the assassin, or stay with Hobson? One look at the man on the bed made the decision for him. He holstered his gun and turned to help the man he was charged with protecting.   
  
"Easy there, Hobson," he reassured the injured man. "It's all over. He's gone. Just lie back and relax."  
  
"Hunh? What? Who's . . .? Stevie?" From the glazed look in Hobson's eyes, Tate figured he was still in the grip of a nightmare. Didn't this man ever have any good dreams? "H-he's going to . . . I can't . . . can't let him!" Tate looked with growing alarm at the monitors. He would be the first to admit that he knew next to nothing about the damned things, but what little he did said that this was not good! "Don't hurt her!" Hobson cried. He tried to push the officer's hands away and get out of the bed.  
  
"Hobson! Gary! Wake up, man! It's just a dream!" he shouted. Where was a nurse when you needed one? As if on cue, two nurses burst through the door. They immediately tried to calm their patient with little effect. He continued to call for 'Stevie' and 'Angel', all the while struggling to get free. One of the nurses hit the call button.  
  
"We need that sedative in here, STAT!" she snapped. Less than a minute later, a third nurse entered with a syringe. As Tate and the first two put all their strength into holding onto the struggling man, she swabbed down the IV port and slid the needle in. At first it seemed to have no effect at all. Finally, however, Gary stopped fighting them. His eyes began to close, and his breathing returned almost to normal. Subsequently, so did his heart rate. A moment later, Gary was drifting back towards sleep once more.   
  
"Wh-what . . . what happened?" he asked drowsily. "Y'okay?"  
  
"I'm fine," Tate responded. He decided all his questions could wait for later. He was dying to know why Hobson had been so insistent that he be waiting in the bathroom at that particular time, 'no matter what!' It was a request that had given him the element of surprise at a critical moment "You just had a bad dream," he added. "Go back to sleep."  
  
"W-wait," he gasped weakly. "P-Polly. They're after Polly, too. Y-you have to . . . to check on her. Please!"  
  
***************  
  
Polly had been catching up on her paperwork when the fire code was announced. For some reason, it reminded her of that cryptic warning Gary's mother had delivered earlier that afternoon. Polly's face split into an evil grin as she pictured more than one use for a fire extinguisher.  
  
*********************  
  
Stevie barely made it back to the car two steps ahead of a soaking wet and spluttering Angel.  
  
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.  
  
"That corn-fed b----h was waiting for me," she snapped. "Got me with the fire extinguisher as I came around the corner, then she turned the hose on me. Said something about me keeping my cotton-picking hands to myself." She wiped at the water that was dripping down her face from her hair. "I really, really want that broad, Stevie. I want her so bad." As she slid into the passenger seat she asked, "Hobson?"  
  
Rossellini shook his head in disgust. "This is really beginning to bug me," he snapped. "Either this guy has some top-notch protection, or he's got an 'in' with God!"  
  
"Well, I'm going to clip the wings on his guardian angel," Chaste grumbled as Stevie started the car. "Damn! I don't even know what her face looks like!"  
  
Stevie shot her a startled look as he sped out of the parking lot. "You didn't see who . . .?"  
  
"No. I just got a glimpse of some big, blonde woman in dark green before I got a face full of foam," she reluctantly admitted. "But I'll recognize that accent anywhere."  
  
***********************  
  
"You wanted to see me, Sugar?"  
  
Gary pried open drug laden eyes at the sound of the familiar drawl. It took a little effort to focus on the source. 'What did they give me?' he wondered. "Polly?"  
  
"In the flesh, Sweetie," she replied with a wry smile. "Heard you had a little excitement up here."  
  
"Y-yeah," Gary murmured drowsily. "Bad dream, I think. You . . . Y'okay?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"Hmm? Not sure anymore. Tired," he mumbled. "Sure you're okay?"  
  
"I'm just fine, Gary," Polly smiled. "Now you get on back to sleep and let the rest of us do the worryin'. Go on. Close those eyes." The motherly tech smiled as he obediently drifted back to sleep. She turned to go, flipping Tate a jaunty little wave. He just smiled in return.  
  
"Thanks, Polly," the nurse sighed as Polly closed the door behind her. "For some reason, he was frantic about you. Just would not rest unless we let him talk to you himself!"  
  
"Gary spends too much time frettin' over things," the easy-going tech shrugged. She started walking down the corridor, headed back to radiology.  
  
"Oh! What was all the excitement down in x-ray?" the young nurse asked. "They said security was all over the place."  
  
"Nothin' much," Polly drawled. "Somebody broke in an' some water got spilt. They were lookin' for the vandals while housekeepin' cleaned up. You tell Gary I'll be back to see him in the mornin'." Polly saw no reason to worry anyone else about her visitor. Between security and the police, the situation was pretty well covered. As she continued back to her department, a frown crossed her time worn features. She hoped no more attempts would be made on the young man she had grown so fond of. He had suffered enough just in the year or so that she had known him. If, however, those two were so foolish as to make another try while he was still within her 'territory', she would make them regret the day they first drew breath on this earth!  
  
*****************  
  
It was still dark when Gary woke up the next morning to find a familiar orange tabby nuzzling his right hand. His mind was still fighting the drugs from last night, so it was a moment before he realized where he was. Alarmed, Gary sat up a little too quickly, causing a sharp, stabbing pain in his left side. With a muffled groan, he lay back, then raised his head just enough to look around for the object of his concern. Gary let his breath out with a relieved 'whoosh!' when he spotted the Paper on the foot of his bed. He saw Tate sleeping in a chair that he had placed against the door. Well, that was one way to insure against intruders! Looking at the cat, he waved one hand at the Paper.  
  
"I don't suppose you could just . . .?"   
  
The cat just looked at him and purred.  
  
"Have I ever told you how much I like dogs?"  
  
The cat responded by turning his back on the offending human as he set about grooming his fur. With a martyred sigh, something he had been doing a lot lately, Gary carefully reached down and retrieved the Paper.   
  
"I'd have been happy to hand you that."   
  
Startled, Gary almost dropped the Paper as he clutched at his chest again. "Jesus, Tate!" he gasped. "Don't do that! Make a little noise first, or something!" He tried to still the trembling in his hands, only to have the tell-tale rustling of the Paper betray him as he flipped it open.  
  
"Still a little shaky from last night?" the young officer asked quietly as he moved his chair closer to the bed.  
  
Gary glanced up from the Paper, giving Tate a puzzled look. "Last night? What happened last night?"  
  
Tate gave a dry little laugh, thinking that Gary was being sarcastic. When Gary continued to look at him strangely, he suddenly felt unsure. "You really don't remember?"  
  
"Now, if I remembered," Gary said with a grimace, "would I be asking? C'mon. Give. What happened?"  
  
Feeling a little puzzled himself now, Tate related the events of the night before. Starting with Gary telling him to go into the bathroom at a certain time, and how insistent he had been about it. Gary admitted to recalling that much, but had no recollection at all of any nightmare. Nor of anything else for the rest of the night, other than a vague feeling of unease about Polly Gannon.   
  
"Is . . . is she okay?"  
  
"Okay! That woman kicked butt last night!" Tate told him with a huge grin. "They caught it on the new security cameras this time. Polly got her with the fire extinguisher the second she rounded the corner. When that ran out, she had the fire hose ready. It was awesome!" He held up a video cassette. "I got you a copy. Maybe we can get someone to bring us a VCR later."  
  
Gary lay back with a sigh of relief, the Paper still clutched in his hands. 'Thank God!' he thought. 'No one was hurt!' His brow furrowed as something else Tate had said pushed its way to the front of his mind. "You said I was yelling something?" The officer nodded solemnly. "Did I seem . . . awake . . . when I did this?"  
  
"Not entirely," Tate admitted. "A little . . . spacey. Who are Stevie and Angel?"  
  
Gary shook his head, a bemused look on his face. "Damned if I know," he replied. "Hunh! Doesn't ring any bells at all." He was pleased to notice that his hands were no longer shaking as he lifted the Paper once more. Nothing much going on, it seemed. Headlines about the World Trade Center still dominated the front page. Gary couldn't suppress a pang of guilt every time he saw the pictures of horrifying death and destruction. What more could he have done? Why had no one listened to him? Was this another one of those things that was beyond his scope as a 'Guardian?' Sadly, he turned the page, choosing not to dwell on what he could no longer prevent.   
  
Another purse snatcher was haunting Lake Shore Park. And a brown-out would cause traffic signals to be fouled up for a few minutes, causing several minor fender benders. Nothing that needed his personal attention. And the Bulls were going to beat the Magics by six. That was good to know. He'd let his dad handle the purse snatcher, and let Mom handle Dad.  
  
"I know several Steve's," Gary mused, more to himself than to Tate. "None of them go by 'Stevie' though. And I don't know anyone named 'Angel,' period. Used to know an Angela. But no one dared call her 'Angel'! Not to her face, anyway. What exactly did I say about 'em?"  
  
Tate shook his head as he answered. "I'm not really sure. You seemed to be warning Angel about Stevie and begging Stevie not to hurt Angel. After they gave you that shot and Ms Gannon came by, you settled down for a couple of hours. Then, somewhere around midnight, you started mumbling in your sleep." The young officer looked away nervously. "You, um, you were talking to Angel . . . asking her . . . something"  
  
A chill ran up Gary's spine as he waited for Tate to finish. The other man seemed to find something absolutely fascinating going on just outside the window. "John?" he finally ventured. "What was I asking her?"  
  
John seemed to notice the cat for the first time. "Hey! Where'd this little guy come from?"  
  
"PetSmart," Gary quipped. "Forget the cat, Tate. What was I asking her?"  
  
"Should he be in here?" the officer asked, obviously stalling for time.  
  
"Tate!"  
  
"You were asking why she shot you! Why she . . . she, um, killed you."  
  
A big, big chill ran up Gary's spine. He could feel the hair standing up along the back of his neck and arms as his hands clenched tighter around the pages. "Whoa!" he whispered. Why would he be asking anyone a question like that?  
  
"That's not all."  
  
Gary slowly lay the Paper on his lap. "What else, exactly, did I say?"  
  
"You kept calling yourself Tony," John sighed. "And apologizing for trying to kill her! Saying something like . . . it's nothing personal."  
  
"Nothing . . .! How personal can it get!" Gary let his head fall back against the pillow as his mind digested what Tate had thrown at him. "This is too weird. I've got two assassins after me and I'm dreaming about committing murder!"  
  
"Not quite," John told him. "You were also apologizing to Stevie and your Uncle Vinnie for not being able to kill Angel. Seems you were screwed no matter which way you turned."  
  
"Now there's an Uncle Vinnie," Gary sighed. "Too bad I can't remember anything. Sounds like I had quite a party going on."  
  
***************  
  
"He knew your name," Rossellini mused.  
  
"What?"  
  
"When I got to his room," Stevie explained, "he was asleep. Having some kind of nightmare. Anyway, I'm just past the bathroom door, grabbing a towel to use as a silencer, and bam! The kid's sitting straight up, eyes wide open and screaming your name!"  
  
The two were sitting in a tiny restaurant less than a mile from the hospital. A late night meeting with their client had not gone well, so they were now trying to come up with a new plan of action.  
  
"How could he know my name?" Angel wondered. "I don't even have a police record! I've never been fingerprinted, booked, or even suspected! There's no way he can ID me!"  
  
"Well, sweetheart, he shouted your name loud and clear," Stevie told her with a sad shake of his head. "Hell of it is, as I was getting away, I thought I heard him shout my name, too. There is something so weird about this guy! He always seems to know when we're close. He has no behavior pattern at all, that I can see, other than that bar. And we don't know if he works there or just hangs out so much he's part of the scenery. I mean, he comes and goes too much to be a regular employee, and he doesn't act like he owns the place, either. I just don't see where he fits! And, now, he's shouting our names in his sleep!"  
  
"We need to do a little more research," Angel suggested. "I mean, we came into this all wrong. First of all, we knew next to nothing about this guy from the outset. We saw him, thought he was Tony, and panicked. Uncle Vinnie did the same thing. None of us took the time to think this through. Now, at least we know that he is not the same guy we both knew as Tony Greco, and that some guy named Sung wants him dead. We know that he managed to stay one step ahead of the best 'mechanics' Chicago has to offer. And there is a possibility that he actually lives here. Other than that . . .zip."  
  
"And his name," Rossellini reminded her. "Gary Hobson. Okay, so we need to know more about our target. We start with the newspaper morgues and police records." Angel gave him a questioning look. "I have contacts," he assured her. "Actually, I know this hacker. He can get into any system on earth. Trust me, by this time tomorrow, we'll know things about Hobson he doesn't even know himself."  
  
***************  
  
"Gary Hobson?"  
  
Stirring fitfully, Gary struggled to fight off the effects of the latest dose of painkillers. As bad as his ribs hurt, he was tempted to refuse the next round so that he could keep his head clear. He turned to look at the two men standing next to Tate as they repeated his name.  
  
"Tha's me," he murmured groggily. "How c'n I he'p you?"  
  
"You can tell us what you know of the terrorist attacks this morning," the nearest man replied. He flipped open a notebook, evidently with the intent of rattling off a list of questions, when his partner nudged him in the ribs. The other man cast a sidelong glance at the uniformed officer. "Could we have some privacy?" the first man asked. "This falls under national security."  
  
"My job is his security," Tate replied stubbornly. "If you don't want me to hear, write your questions down. But I'm staying."  
  
"S'cuse me," Gary murmured, still struggling to focus his drugged senses. "Who're you and why should I talk to you?"  
  
"I'm Agent Pritchett," the first man replied, flashing a badge in front of Gary's face. "This is Agent Dobbs. We're with . . . Mr. Hobson? Is something wrong?"  
  
At mention of the second agent's name, all the blood had drained from Gary's face and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. He had never seen the real Agent Dobbs, not alive anyway, but he knew this man was much too young to have been the same agent who'd been slain by J. T. Marley. The coincidence of the names, however, was more than a little unnerving.  
  
"I, ahm, I'm okay," he stammered. "Wh-who'd you say you were with?"  
  
"National Security Agency," Dobbs told him. He shot Officer Tate a baleful glare. "You made a number of phone calls the night before last, Mr. Hobson, to report a series of hijackings and a terrorist threat. Specifically to the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Those buildings were subsequently attacked yesterday morning at precisely the times you reported."  
  
"Yeah," Gary mumbled despondently, turning his face to the window. "Fat lot of good it did. No one would listen. No one."  
  
"Then you admit to knowing of the attacks prior to the news reports?" Pritchett asked.  
  
"Not in the way you're thinking," Gary sighed. "I wasn't involved in what happened. I just . . . Look, go talk to General George Hammond, Cheyenne Mountain Reserve in Colorado. Whatever he tells you is all you'll get. Besides, I thought you guys had orders to lay offa me."  
  
"Not that we're aware of, sir. Is General Hammond the one who gave you this list of numbers?" Dobbs asked. "And this code phrase?"  
  
"No," Gary snorted. "Not on his own authority, anyway. He cleared it with the Pentagon and President Tyson first. 'In case you can be of any further service to your country.' Some service," he added bitterly. "I called every number on that list. Some of them twice! The nicest thing that happened was being put on hold. That was when I wasn't being hung up on, or laughed at. Evidently, my 'service' isn't required by this administration."  
  
"And just what, exactly, would this service consist of, Mr. Hobson?" Dobbs asked. "Are you psychic? Do you . . .?"  
  
Gary turned a heated glare on the NSA agent. "If you say one thing about visions or voices," he warned him, his voice low and dangerous, "chest tube or not, I'll get out of this bed and kick your sorry . . .!"  
  
"I think that's enough, gentlemen," Tate interceded quickly, taking the two agents by the elbows and turning them toward the door. "His doctor will hand me my head if I let you upset his patient any further. Mr. Hobson has given you all the information he intends to, so go back to your superiors and tell them you'll have to come back when he's feeling better."  
  
"We have a lot more questions, Officer . . ." Pritchett began indignantly.  
  
"Take it up with his doctor," Tate replied grimly. "Seems to me, if someone had listened, you'd be pinning a medal on him right about now. You want someone to blame? Check out the people that hung up on 'im. Find out why he wasn't put through to someone that would listen." With that, he shoved the two agents out the door, closing it on their protests. "Self righteous jerks," the young cop grumbled.  
  
"Thanks," Gary sighed. "I really wasn't up for this, I guess."  
  
"I dunno," Tate remarked as he settled back in his chair by the door. "You seemed to be standing your ground pretty good, there. I take it you've been through something like this before?"  
  
"Once or twice," the young bar owner nodded glumly. "I just . . . just wish they'd listened. That I could've made a difference."  
  
"Don't we all," Tate murmured sadly. "Don't we all . . ."  
  
*******************   
  
Gary was dozing fitfully later that evening when his mother showed up. The young officer who had relieved Tate that morning told her that his charge had been mumbling and groaning softly for the past hour. So, of course, the first thing she did was check him for a fever.  
  
The moment he felt the cool touch of her hand to his cheek, Gary's eyes fluttered open.   
  
"Hmm? Oh, hi Mom," he mumbled drowsily. "How . . .?"  
  
"Just a few minutes, dear," she answered his half formed question. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Loopy," he replied honestly. "Wish they'd ease off on the pain meds, a little. Don't need enough to knock out a horse."  
  
"I'll talk to your doctor about it," Lois promised. Lowering her voice, she continued. "Everything went well at the park," she told him. "Your dad caught the man in the act, and he's at the station giving a statement, now. Things went well last night, I hear."  
  
"Um hmm. Polly was awesome, or so they tell me," Gary grinned, still half under the influence. "Got pictures 'n' everything. Gonna try to . . . to ID the woman from that." He frowned as another thought occurred to him. "They're dangerous, Mom. You 'n' Dad be careful."  
  
"This from the man with a reserved suite in the Trauma Center?"  
  
"Ha ha." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Th'others okay?"  
  
"Everyone's fine, dear," his mom sighed. "You're the one to worry about. Are you running a fever? You feel a little warm."  
  
"Little one," he admitted. "They've got me on . . . on anti . . . anti . . . something or other." He tried, and failed, to suppress a cavernous yawn. "Sorry. Gave me . . . the good stuff, I guess."  
  
"They must have," Lois agreed softly. "I'll let you get some rest, dear." She started to rise, but Gary grasped her hand.  
  
"No. Don't go, yet," he pleaded drowsily. "Stay. Please?"  
  
Concerned, Lois sat back down. "Sure, Gary. Is something wrong?"  
  
"No. N-not really," her son replied hesitantly. "Strange dreams. Weird. Like . . . it's me . . .   
and not me. Names . . . faces . . . strangers, but . . . I know 'em . . . somehow. Scary. Need . . .   
need someone . . . familiar . . . real . . . God! I can't think straight! An anchor, I guess. Will you stay, just a little while? Keep me grounded?"  
  
Lois moved the chair a little closer to the bed, taking his hand in both of hers. "Of course I will," she told her son. "Just close your eyes, sweetie. I'll be here when you wake up."  
  
With a relieved sigh, Gary did as he was told. Seconds later, he was sound asleep, making soft little snoring noises. Lois wondered if they should consider getting him a bed like this for his apartment. He always seemed to sleep a little more soundly, and with a lot less sound, than in his usual bed.   
  
"I don't think I've ever seen that before," a voice commented from the doorway.  
  
Lois turned in her seat to spy a tall, dark haired young man in a white coat.  
  
"You've never seen a mother sitting with her son before?" she asked.  
  
"Actually, I was referring to the fact that he recognized the need for support," the young man replied, "and could put his ego aside long enough to ask for it. I'm Dr. Lucas, by the way. I've been assigned to your son, this time. He's been in and out a lot, recently. Is he accident prone, or something?"  
  
Lois eyed the young doctor closely. Something in his tone rankled her maternal instincts. "You're new here, aren't you?" It was more a statement than a question.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "I just started this week."  
  
"Then you're unaware that my son is a witness in a multiple murder case," she informed him. "He's been shot, beaten, shot again, kidnapped, chased all over the city by hit men, who have made two attempts right here in your own hospital. He is here because of a collapsed lung he acquired while escaping from some woman who was taking pot shots at him in the streets yesterday. At no time will I ever hear the words 'accident prone' escape your mouth again in my presence again. Do you understand?"  
  
"Ahm, no, ma'am, you won't," a thoroughly chastened Dr. Lucas replied.  
  
**************  
  
"She put him in his place in a heartbeat," Officer Phillips was telling his relief. "No way was she letting him talk down to her!"  
  
Tate smiled at the image. He had heard about the new doctor. A real condescending . . . fellow. To hear that his first run-in with one of 'Gary's Angels', as his mother and Ms Gannon were jokingly called, had sent Dr. Lucas packing with his tail between his legs was welcome news. He wondered if the good doctor had met the other half of the team yet?   
  
"So, how's he doing today?" Tate inquired. "Any more nightmares?"  
  
"Every time he closes his eyes," the other man sighed. "I don't know who this 'Angel' or 'Stevie' are, but they've been giving this poor guy hell. And he's started mumbling about some others, too. Someone named 'Nicky' and another, 'Pauly' something or other. Oh, and 'Uncle Vinnie' was back. His mom has been with him for the last couple of hours, and that seems to help some."  
  
"I wish I could remember why that last name sounds so familiar," Tate grumbled, half to himself. "That's been bugging me all day."   
  
"And those NSA agents were back," the other man sighed. "Hobson wouldn't even speak to 'em. Every time you mention the attack, he clams up. It's almost . . . almost like he feels personally responsible. But that's impossible, isn't it?"  
  
"From what I've seen of Hobson," Officer Tate replied grimly, "he's incapable of even being involved in something like that! Besides, he'd just gotten out of the hospital a few days before the attack. Where he'd been for a week or so, as I recall. He'd only been out a couple of days when I first met him. Before that, he was under police protection. When did he have time to meet up with any terrorists? Just the same, he seems to feel he could've stopped it if he'd done something . . . different."  
  
"But how did he know?" Phillips asked. "How does he always know?"  
  
"I couldn't tell you," Tate shrugged, "and he won't say."  
  
"Well, he's all yours, now," the other cop said with a weary grin. "Johnson'll relieve you in the morning. I have to be at my brother's wedding."  
  
Not sure what to expect, Tate cautiously entered the room. He found Lois Hobson with her head resting on the bed, one hand loosely covering one of Gary's. The man he was there to protect was apparently sleeping, if you could call it that. He was tossing fitfully, twisting one way only to be brought up short by the tube in his side. Turning the other only to have that same tube stop him with a painful jab. Each time, his eyes would flutter as if he were trying to wake, only to be pulled down into unconsciousness once more.   
  
"He's been like that most of the day," Lois Hobson murmured. "His fever keeps going up and down like a yoyo." She raised her head, wiping sleep from her eyes. "They're still not sure if it's from his collapsed lung or if he picked up something in the storm drains. I'm afraid if they take anymore blood, he won't have any left."  
  
"The docs are doing everything they can, Mrs. Hobson," Tate assured her. "After that run in with Lucas, I doubt he'll do anything less. Bill said you chewed him up one side and down the other."  
  
Lois smiled at the implied compliment. She knew she was starting to get a reputation as being tougher than a she-bear in any matter that dealt with her son. Good. Whatever it took to keep her boy safe.  
  
*************  
  
It was the same dream as before. Gary was in the storeroom/warehouse(?), standing before the two people who had come to feature so strongly in his waking nightmares as well. Stevie stood over Angel, a gun to her head. He couldn't hear what the other man was saying, but he knew it was not good for the woman. He looked down at the gun in his hand. Gary knew what he had to do. Slowly, he raised the gun. Aimed . . . The gun bucked in his hand . . . and Gary felt his mouth stretch in a silent scream. This was wrong! It wasn't him doing this! It couldn't be!  
  
His eyelids fluttered or a moment as he tried to wake up, only to be drawn back into the dream world once more. This time he was chasing Angel with a silenced gun in his hands as she ran from the stacks in a library. He pursued her past a frightened librarian and down a flight of stairs, where he shot her . . . in the back!  
  
A low moan escaped his lips as he tried once more to flee his Morphean prison. Someone was saying, 'Can't they do something? He's burning up!' Then he was spiraling down into himself once more. Only it wasn't him. It couldn't be. He would never be standing outside anyone's window with a rifle, let alone aiming it at the person standing within. And he would never, ever shoot . . . Dear God! He did! He shot the bottle right out of her hand! No!   
  
With a Herculean effort, he forced his eyes open. Everything was blurry, but real. Still, why was it so hot?   
  
"S'hot," he murmured softly. "M-mom? S'hot." He was rewarded with a spoonful of ice chips. Gary held them in his mouth as long as he could, savoring the cold against the dryness and the heat radiating from every inch of his body. "M-more, please?"  
  
"Sure, Sweetie," Lois Hobson replied as she placed another helping in his mouth. "How are you feeling, Gary?"  
  
"Hot, tired," he mumbled. "More?" Lois obediently spooned more ice in. For some reason, the image of a mother bird feeding her chick flitted across her mind. Gary opened fever-glazed eyes and noticed the fleeting little smile that played across her face. "What?"  
  
"Nothing, dear," she replied, dishing out more ice.   
  
******************  
  
Gary's fever finally broke that evening, allowing him to slip into a restful sleep. When he woke the next morning, he felt better than he had in days. The first thing he noticed was that his mother's place had been taken by Marissa. His blind friend was quietly reading a Braille novel, putting it aside the moment he looked her way.  
  
"Hi," he murmured around a small yawn. "Whatcha reading'?"  
  
"North And South: Book III," she told him. "Almost finished, too. Excellent story. Charles Main reminds me of you for some reason."  
  
"Hmm. Never read it," Gary mumbled with a tiny smile. "Been here long?"  
  
"Long enough," his friend smiled. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Better. Where's Mom?"  
  
Marissa reached up and touched his cheek with the back of her hand. A gesture so familiar, it brought a bigger smile to his pale features.   
  
"I meant my other mom," he joked. He was rewarded by a playful slap. "Ow! Stop! I'm a sick man! You see that?" he called out in a weak voice to the officer by the door. "You're supposed to be protecting me!"  
  
"Can't protect you from your own mouth," Tate remarked with a grin. "Nobody's that good."  
  
"Tha's cruel," the patient mumbled pitifully. "My best friend and the man I'm trustin' with my life gangin' up on me. That . . . that's so cruel." He closed his eyes momentarily, still feeling a little drained. "Seriously, Marissa, where's Mom?"  
  
"She waited until the . . . um, she had to take the cat back home," Marissa finally told him. Gary mouthed a quiet 'oh' as he got the message. "She said to tell you that she'll be back tonight."  
  
Gary frowned at the idea of his mother spending all her free time looking after him. The last thing he wanted was for her to work herself into a state of exhaustion.  
  
"Would you give her a message for me?" he asked his partner. "Tell her to take a day off. Go see a movie or something. When . . . when I asked her to stay, I didn't mean for the duration."  
  
"Gary," Marissa said with a smile, "you're sick, and injured. The U.S. Marines couldn't keep her away for long."  
  
"Umm. Pro'bly right," Gary sighed. "I just hate to see her wearing herself out over this. Clay 'n' Buddy doin' okay?"  
  
"Just fine," she assured him. "Except for a touch of cabin fever. They send their regards. Any more dreams?"  
  
"Loads," the young patient grumbled. "I just can't make any sense of 'em."  
  
"Tell me about them. Maybe I can help."  
  
Gary stared at the ceiling for a moment as he tried to organize what he could recall of his nightmares.  
  
"It's all kinda jumbled," he told her. "And I can only remember bits and pieces. The woman is there. I think her name is. . . 'Angel'. Then there's this guy. Kinda stocky, average height, with dark hair and a . . . a roundish sorta face. 'Stevie'. . . I kept calling him 'Stevie'. Another guy, shorter than me, with blondish hair. That . . . that was 'Nicky'? We . . . Stevie and . . . we were trying to . . . to ki-kill this woman. Angel. But . . . I don't know why!"  
  
"You're right," Marissa mused. "That doesn't make any sense. Especially you trying to kill someone."  
  
"B-but then I was trying to save her!" he continued with a frustrated moan.  
  
"That makes sense!"  
  
"No! I shot Stevie, my friend, to save her," Gary tried to explained. "A woman I didn't even know! God, help me! I hate guns! They've never been anything but bad news for me. Why would I . . ." he paused to reconsider. "Because I've been shot at so much, lately, do you think? Is this one of those Freudian things you keep tellin' me about?"  
  
"Gary," his friend said with a tiny laugh, "Freud would have nightmares trying to figure out your 'normal' dreams!"  
  
Gary made a face. "That's a big help."  
  
"I'm serious!" she went on. "Things happen to you and around you that science just cannot explain! Even experts in the paranormal haven't come up with a category that you'd fit in! You are totally outside the box!" She fell silent, tapping her lower lip in concentration.  
  
"You've thought of something," Gary said. "What?"  
  
"Claire! The psychic who helped you find that baby! Maybe she could help you!"  
  
"Please!" he groaned, laying his head back. "She thinks I'm psychic, too. I still get calls from her wanting to team up for a stage act. I think she's joking though."  
  
"What have you got to lose?" Marissa asked reasonably.  
  
"Other than my sanity? Not much," Gary said with a shrug. "And since I'm hanging on to that by my fingernails right now, I'll take whatever help I can get. I'll give her a call, I guess," he conceded with a tired sigh. "God! I'm so tired of people trying to kill me. I'd really like to go to sleep and wake up in my own bed and know that I was safe there. Lately, it seems the whole world wants to carve off little pieces of me."  
  
"Speaking of which," Marissa sighed, "guess who's sitting in the waiting room? Those two, um, 'gentlemen' from the NSA."  
  
"Again?" Gary groaned. "Just what part of 'no' are they having problems with?"  
  
*******************************  
  
The day Carter promised the tube would come out finally arrived. Gary lay there, perfectly still, trying not to shudder as he felt the long piece of plastic slide out from between his ribs. God, that felt weird! He looked over at the bloody object the nurse was putting into a red bag. At least six inches of it was coated in his blood! Ee-yew! Fascinated by the sight, it was all he could do to suppress a yelp when he felt a sharp pain in his side, followed by a burning sensation. Startled, he looked down to see a tiny syringe being withdrawn from a spot just below the incision.   
  
"Just a little xylocaine," Carter assured him. "Useless you'd rather we sew you up without it."  
  
"No-no-no!" Gary insisted. "That's okay! Just warn me next time? I take it that it's not a good idea to jump with sharp objects stickin' in ya?"  
  
"Not really, no," Carter agreed, disposing of the syringe in a 'sharps' container. "We'll give that a couple of minutes to take affect then finish up. It only needs a couple of stitches. Feeling okay? No trouble breathing?"  
  
Gary drew in a slow, deep breath, still acutely aware of the hole in his side. "Feels good," he reported. "No pain, no pressure. Does this mean I get to go home soon?"  
  
"If you're still feeling this good in the morning," the young doctor promised. "Happy birthday, by the way."  
  
Carter's off hand remark caught Gary by surprise. He had been so used to looking a day ahead, he had to think back to the day of the WTC tragedy to figure that day's date. "Hunh! I guess it is," he murmured. "Thanks, Doc."  
  
"Still having those dreams?"  
  
Gary gave him an exasperated look. "Does everyone know about that?" he asked ruefully. "Yeah, every night since I've been in here. Got anything that'll stop 'em?"  
  
"Sorry," Carter replied with a shake of his head. He prodded the incision with a pair of hemostats. When Gary didn't react, he used the same instrument to pick up the suture needle. "I could have one of the shrinks come by, if you like. Although, from the sound of it, maybe you need us to call the X-Files."  
  
"C-cute, Doc" Gary grunted as Carter tugged to tighten the first stitch. "Should we have the 'Exorcist' on stand-by?"  
  
"Nah, that only works if you're possessed. Too specialized. No, for your hauntings, nightly visitations, and general weirdness, it's either the X-Files, or Poltergeist: The Legacy. Want me to make the call?"  
  
"You've been talking to Marissa, haven't you," Gary muttered, a little fed up with the teasing. "You know, I don't wish this on anybody else," he added bitterly, "but I'd like to see how you guys would handle waking up night after night from someone else's nightmare. Don't get me wrong, Doc. I'm really happy that you guys are getting so much entertainment from this, but I'd settle for a decent night's sleep!"  
  
Carter tied off the last stitch and set down his instruments, eyeing Gary with genuine concern. "I didn't mean to make fun of you, Gary," he apologized. "Just trying to lighten the mood a little. This really has you bugged, hasn't it?"  
  
"Yes. Think about it," Gary sighed. "By day I have this team of hit-men trying to collect my head. Then I have one of them haunting my dreams every night. Only, I think I'm seeing her through somebody else's eyes. Toss in the fact I've got two guys in my loft who look enough like me to be me, and I feel like someone's doing a crossover episode of every weird show in the history of television! And I'm the star!" He looked down at the neat row of stitches. Carter was covering it with a thin sheet of clear bandage. "Does that mean I can take a shower now?" At Carter's nod, Gary reached for a towel. "Then I'd better hurry. The way things 've been going, Kirk and Spock could beam down any minute."  
  
******************  
  
It felt so good to have the hot, steamy water streaming down his body, Gary thought to himself. He was tempted to stay in the shower until the hot water ran out. As it was, when he finally wrapped a large towel around his waist and stepped out, it was into a thick cloud of steam. Feeling better than he had in days, Gary started setting up his shaving gear. Clearing just enough of the mirror's surface to do the job, he set to work.   
  
A few minutes later, as he was wiping the last traces of lather from his chin, Gary felt a distinct chill in the foggy air. 'Did someone open a door?' he wondered, looking around. Not seeing anyone, he shrugged and turned back to his gear. Reaching a hand out to pick up his lotion, Gary paused as he felt a 'crawling' sensation on his arms and chest. Looking down, he was startled to see every hair on his arm rising to attention. He was actually breaking out in goose bumps! A chill breath sent a shiver up his spine as he spun around, seeking the elusive source. 'What the hell is going on here?' he wondered when his search revealed nothing but a fog-shrouded bathroom. He'd turned the shower off nearly twenty minutes before. Why was it still so foggy?  
  
Puzzled, he once more reached for his shaving lotion. Awkwardly splashing a little into his palm, he set the bottle down. He gave the cast on his left arm a rueful look. Carter promised it would be off in another couple of weeks. In the meantime, it made shaving a royal pain. Rubbing the fingers of his left hand briskly against the palm of the right, he turned back to the mirror and began to apply the soothing lotion to his freshly shaved skin. He froze, both hands to his cheeks, like that kid in 'Home Alone.' There, looking back at him over his right shoulder, was himself. Or, at least, a foggy image of himself. 'Is there another mirror in here?' He couldn't remember seeing one. And, if there was, wouldn't he be seeing the back of his head? Gary stared in amazement at the apparition. It looked just like him, except for a round mark just above the bridge of his nose. Stunned, and a little frightened, Gary dropped his hands from his face and spun around once more to face . . . nothing. There was no one there.   
  
"What is this?" he asked angrily. "What do you want with me?" No answer. "Then . . . just go away and leave me alone!"  
  
He turned back to gather his things off the sink . . . and there he was. The 'other him' was much closer this time. Close enough to reach out a spectral hand and place it on Gary's bare shoulder.   
  
It was like an electrical shock coursing throughout his body! Every nerve, every atom, screamed in pain as image after image assailed his mind! All his nightmares of the past week came hurtling back in a kaleidoscope of color and sound! Frozen and helpless, unable even to breathe, all Gary could do was endure the avalanche of raw emotion that accompanied each new assault. So much pain! Confusion! At last, his body already weakened by injury and illness, Gary could take no more. He had a vague impression of the floor rushing up to meet him, then . . .  
  
"Gary? Gary, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?" The voice had a tinny quality, as if it were coming from a great distance. It seemed to be heading in his direction, though. "C'mon, Gary. Talk to us!" Carter? Hadn't he just left?  
  
"Umm? Wha . . .what happened?" Gary mumbled groggily. "Wh-where 'm I?" He pried his eyes open to see a pair of blurry, but concerned faces bending over him. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Gary started to raise his head. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as a stabbing pain sent him flopping back. It felt like someone had driven a spike between his eyes! "Ah, man! What was that? What happened?"  
  
"We were hoping you could tell us," Carter remarked. "Your parents found you collapsed in the bathroom about ten minutes ago. Do you remember anything?"  
  
Gary rubbed at his temples, trying to massage the pain away, as he attempted to marshal his thoughts. "I remember a nice, hot shower," he sighed. "And shaving. Thinking about this blasted cast. Then . . . cold. I-it was so cold, all of a sudden. I had goose bumps, it was so cold! A-after that . . . it got weird. Man! What hit me?"  
  
"I have no idea . . . yet," Carter confessed. "We're going to run a few tests, see what we can find out. In the meantime, don't even attempt to get out of this bed!" He turned to the other two occupants of the room. "Sit on him if you have to, but keep him quiet. I'll be back in a few minutes."  
  
As the young doctor grabbed Gary's chart and turned to go, Lois Hobson quickly took his place at Gary's bedside. She folded a wet washcloth and placed it over his eyes. The sudden darkness combined with the coolness helped to ease the pain . . . a little. He still felt like a jackhammer was pounding away at his skull, though.  
  
"It scared me to death, finding you like that!" Lois moaned. "All curled up on the floor, barely breathing . . . I-we thought you were dying!"  
  
"Sorry, Mom," Gary murmured through the pain in his head. "Don't know what happened. So weird. Saw . . . saw this face . . . in the mirror."  
  
"Someone was in the bathroom with you?" Bernie's voice asked from somewhere near his feet.  
  
"Y-yes. No. So weird! Maybe this double/triple thing is getting to me," Gary mumbled. "M-maybe I got the water too hot and . . . maybe I hallucinated or . . . or something. Y-you didn't see some tall guy with pointed ears . . .did you?"  
  
"Gary, you're babbling," Bernie told his son. "Calm down and try to make sense."  
  
"That's just it, Dad! It doesn't make any sense!" Gary retorted. "I thought I saw . . . me . . . looking over my . . . own . . . Don't give me that look!"  
  
"What look? Your eyes are covered!" Bernie protested. "How do you know what kind of look I'm giving you?"  
  
"I've been taking lessons from Marissa," Gary quipped. "And you've got that 'It's time for the rubber room' look. I'm not crazy! Yet." He rubbed a little harder at his temples. This headache was a killer! He could feel his stomach muscles tighten as the pain triggered a bout of nausea. Gary swallowed convulsively, trying to head it off. No way was he going to throw . . .!  
  
Gary just had time to mumble "Oh, Lord!" before he lurched up from the bed. His dad held him upright as his mother pressed a plastic 'convenience' bag to his face. Soon Gary was rid of his lunch, breakfast, and possibly last night's supper. When there was nothing left but dry heaves, a cup of water was pressed to his mouth. Gary used the first mouthful to rinse the foul taste from his mouth. The next he swallowed to ease the burning in his throat. Not too much, or it would start all over again. Exhausted, Gary let his father ease him back down onto the bed, only to shoot back up for another round. The cycle repeated itself several more times. At some point, Gary felt a sharp prick in his arm and a warm, fuzzy sensation washed over him. A couple of eternities passed before the medicine kicked in, leaving him feeling drained and limp.   
  
"This is the pits," he mumbled drowsily.   
  
"How's the head, now, Gary?" Lois asked, brushing at the hair on his forehead. She had always loved playing with his hair. "Any better?"  
  
"Still hurts," he admitted. "What's goin' on, Mom? What's happenin' to me?"  
  
"I wish I knew, sweetie," Lois sighed. "I wish I knew."  
  
"Happy birthday, son," Bernie murmured quietly as the younger Hobson drifted off to sleep.  
  
***************  
  
"There is no way I'm going to let you talk with my patient," Dr. Lucas told the two agents. "He's suffered some type of seizure and is in no condition for another interrogation. We've already shown you his admission records and the police reports. There is no possible way for him to have been involved with the events of September eleventh."  
  
"Then how did he know about it?" Dobbs asked. "We've already identified three of the hijackers and have traced their movements enough to rule out Hobson as a known associate. So how did he learn of the attack at least twelve hours before it happened?"  
  
"You can ask him when his condition has improved," Dr. Lucas informed them. "That's not to say he'll give you any answers. Evidently, you failed to impress him with your authority."  
  
*************  
  
"I have got to get outta here," Clay growled. "I'm getting' the world's worst case o' cabin fever."  
  
Buddy was bent over Gary's kitchen table, scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper. "Ya oughta get yourself a hobby," he commented distractedly. "Somethin' ya can do indoors."  
  
Clay continued tossing wadded up sheets of newspaper into a wastebasket. "Not the indoor type, brother," he drawled. "I need open air and a good horse. Y'know, Gary looks like he could sit a horse pretty good. Think he'd give it a try?"   
  
"Won't know 'til ya ask," his twin murmured. "See what ya think of this? I'm tryin' to write a song about that lady cousin Gary keeps dreamin' about."  
  
The cowboy removed his feet from the coffee table with a 'thump.' He half-turned to face the kitchenette where his twin sat, working on his song.   
  
"I've been meanin' to ask, how come you keep callin' him 'cuz'? Do you know, for sure, that he's kin to us?"  
  
"If he ain't," Buddy drawled, "he oughta be." He lifted the sheet of paper and began reading. "Just got the chorus so far. Here goes:  
  
She has nerves of steel and a heart of ice  
She can blow you away and not think twice  
A one-way ticket to Paradise,  
That pistol packin' Angel of mine."  
  
He turned so that he could see his brother's reaction. "Think it'll fly?"  
  
"Give it a good beat," Clay remarked with a lazy grin, "and it might limp, but I dunno about flyin'. Why'd you wanna write about a killer for, anyway?"  
  
"I dunno," Buddy sighed, tossing the paper back on the table. "The way he talked about her, I guess. Or the way that detective said he talked about her, anyhow." He leaped to his feet and started pacing. "Damn! I need to talk to Gary. If he can give me a better feel for her, I can do this!"  
  
"Well, you know what hospital he's in," Clay drawled, as he leaned back once more. "Why not give him a call?"  
  
"Tried that." It was Buddy's turn to grumble and growl. "They won't let anyone talk to 'im. Makes sense, if ya think on it. What if I was the killer, tryin' to find 'im? Why make it easy for 'em?"  
  
The ringing of the phone by Gary's bed interrupted whatever reply Clay was going to make. Having been warned against answering, they waited until the answering machine had delivered its message.  
  
"Gary?" a familiar voice spoke up. "This is Dusty. Thought I'd let you know Lula's got us booked for another concert up your way in a coupla weeks. Have you been thinkin' over my offer? Call me back at . . ."  
  
Buddy snatched up the phone. "Dusty! This is Buddy. What offer?" He listened for a moment. "I dunno, he seems a little skittish." Another pause. "He's back in the hospital. No, a big ol' piece o' luggage fell on 'im, broke some ribs. Naw, it was later . . . when his lung collapsed . . . Because of him havin' to lift the cover on that storm drain. To get away from the people . . . No, not the same . . .Yeah, for such a nice fella, he's got an awful lotta people out for his hide. Naw, turned out Gary wasn't . . . but get this, Gary found my real . . .! Yeah! I'm a twin! Oh, yeah! Totally blew me away!" Another pause, longer this time. "Two weeks, Union Center. How come so soon . . .? Uh huh." A slow smile crossed Buddy's face as his mind began to race. "Listen, Dusty, Gary's in a real mess of trouble here. How far are you willin' to go to help 'im out?"  
  
***************  
  
Steve Rossellini leafed through the mass of information his hacker friend had gathered about their target. It made no sense! Just a few years ago, the guy was invisible. A nobody! Just another dime-a-dozen, mediocre stockbroker, plodding along through life without a care in the world! Not so much as an unpaid traffic fine! Then, BAM! he was either being arrested or commended almost on a daily basis! What had happened? The kid was a little young for a mid-life crisis.   
  
Angel was going through every old article they could find in the newspaper archives that mentioned anyone by the name of Hobson. There were plenty. Most of them were just small references that he was somehow involved in one thing or another. She read a few that chronicled a short term on the city council. It seemed he had joined to accomplish something, then resigned once he had succeeded! The most interesting items, though, had to be the ones that dealt with the death of that reporter, Frank Scanlon. Hobson was arrested on suspicion, but escaped on his way to be arraigned. He led the Chicago PD a merry chase until he helped to capture the real killer.  
  
Both killers sat back at almost the same moment, giving vent to twin sighs of frustration.  
  
"I just don't get this guy," Stevie complained. "Just when I think I've got a handle on how his mind works, I find him doing the complete opposite of what it seems he should be doing! He's accused of this, but he was really doing that. The police think he's crazy, but they sit up and listen when he calls." He threw his hands up in surrender. "He's nothing but contradictions! Nothing about this guy makes sense!"  
  
"Ditto," Angel sighed, rubbing at tired eyes. "There's no pattern here. We need to get to know this guy better. By that, I mean him! We need to start where he lives, and follow him through at least one day, maybe two. Get a real feel for the guy that we can't get from this," she added, giving the stack of papers a flip. "And, for that, we have to wait 'til he gets out of the freakin' hospital!"  
  
*****************  
  
'She's so beautiful,' the voice murmured. 'And so sad! Why is she sad? Why is she alone? A pretty woman like her should have men falling all over her. I've looked for someone like her all my life. Why does she have to die? Why do I have to be the one to kill her? My Angel.'  
  
Gary turned his head, trying to block out the low, sad whispers. It was no use. They echoed through the vaults of his mind like the persistent hum of a mosquito. Angel. Her name was Angel. The beautiful killer with the haunting green eyes. He had loved her. Had turned against everything he knew . . . for her. Betrayed loyalties that could mean a slow, horrible death . . . for him. All because he could not bring himself to snuff out the light behind those beautiful, intense green eyes.  
  
She shimmered before him in a luminous haze, long red hair cascading down her back. She looked lost and innocent, like a child left all alone to face a cold, cruel world. Then her hair changed. As did she. It became short, straight, and blonde. Her whole demeanor was cold, calculating. Soft warm eyes had become hard chips of green ice. The soft face of a sorrowing angel was now a devil, set in stone. She raised her right hand to reveal a pistol, aiming it straight and true. The gun coughed once . . . twice . . .  
  
Gary shot up from the bed, eyes wide, then squeezing shut as he clutched at his chest! God! The pain! Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, he groped blindly for the call button. A hand came from out of nowhere, trying to push him back down. No! He couldn't breathe! He must have managed to communicate that, somehow, because the head of the bed met him halfway. A mask was placed over his nose and mouth, feeding him cool, pure oxygen. Someone lifted the mask just long enough to place something, a pill, under his tongue. Nitroglycerin? Was he having a heart attack? If so, the medication wasn't helping! It felt as if someone had slammed a sledgehammer into his ribs! And his head! Twin spikes of agony that threatened to tear him to shreds! Even with his eyes closed, Gary could feel the room spinning in a devilish dance. 'Oh, God!' he thought. 'Not again!'  
  
The mask was whisked away as he lurched forward, making gagging noises deep in his throat. Once again, he found his face buried in a plastic bag. This time, his sore, abused stomach had nothing left to contribute. Minutes later, exhausted, he allowed firm but gentle hands to guide him back onto the bed, and for the oxygen mask to be replaced. He peeled open his eyes, squinting into, what was to him, harsh light, to see a nurse inserting a syringe into his IV. The now familiar feeling of warm fuzziness crept over him as more medication was pumped into his veins. Several more minutes passed before he felt any significant lessening of the pain in either chest or head.   
  
At last the pain abated somewhat and his breathing returned to something close to normal. His chest and head felt sore, tender. As if he had been the recipient of a couple of really devastating blows.   
  
"Gary? Can you hear me?"  
  
Gary pried his right eye open to see Dr. Lucas bending over him, looking concerned. "Umm," he mumbled in reply. "Hurts." The mask muffled his words to an almost incoherent jumble of noise. He reached up to remove it, only to have cool hands push his back down. Too weak to resist, Gary turned his head to look at the owner of those hands. A young woman was pushing buttons on a machine which had wires running to a bunch of tiny patches stuck all over Gary's chest. Puzzled, Gary turned his head to give Dr. Lucas a questioning look.  
  
"We're running an ECG on you," the physician explained. "An electrocardiogram. You're a little young for a heart attack, and, aside from your injuries, in excellent health. So, I don't really expect to find anything. Still, it's best not to take chances. Dr. Carter tells me you passed out in your bathroom shortly after he removed your chest tube. How are you feeling now?"  
  
Gary started to respond, only to have the technician place a warning finger over his mask covered lips. He shot her an exasperated look as the little machine began to whir. A second later, she began ripping off the tiny adhesive patches, along with what felt like a fair amount of hide. Trying not to wince, Gary waited until she was finished and Dr. Lucas was pouring over the print out she had given him, before reaching up once more to remove the mask.   
  
"You really should try to keep that on," Dr. Lucas admonished. "You were having some difficulty breathing."  
  
"I'm having 'difficulty' talking with it on," Gary grumbled, his voice hoarse and raspy. "My chest feels like someone's been driving railroad spikes through it, and my head feels about the same. I think there's a revolving door in my stomach, too. Can't keep anything down. Other than that, I'm just dandy."  
  
Dr. Lucas made notes on Gary's chart, being careful to keep a straight face. He didn't want to chance another run-in with his patient's mother. "Well, this says there's nothing wrong with your heart. Still, we'll get a cardiac enzyme, just to be sure. Can you remember anything about your blackout episode?"  
  
Gary thought back, trying to recall what he had told his parents. Something about a face . . .? "I'd just taken a shower," he replied. "And was . . . no, I was through shaving. Just finishing up with the lotion, when I felt this . . . chill come over me. Like a wave. So cold all of a sudden! Then . . . something, I dunno, brushed against me? It was like touching a live wire! I could feel everything, every muscle just . . . seize up! The next thing I recall was waking up to a killer headache. And losing everything I've eaten since Christmas."  
  
It was Dr. Lucas's turn to give him a look. "It's not even . . . oh. Never mind, I get your point," he added with a pained expression.  
  
"I kinda thought you would," Gary murmured, his eyes starting to grow heavy. The medicine must still be fighting its way through his system. "So, what can you tell me? What kinda tests 've ya done?"  
  
"MRI and EEG," the doctor told his patient. He ran a hand over his face, sighing in frustration. "Preliminary reports show no brain lesions, bleeds, or clots on the MRI. The EEG is . . . inconclusive."  
  
That got Gary's attention. "You found something?"  
  
Dr. Lucas flipped open his patient's chart, scribbling furiously. "I'd like to run another series of tests in the morning, if you're up to it," he replied, avoiding Gary's question. "The EEG, in particular. And possibly a SPECT scan. We'll also do a complete blood work-up . . ."  
  
"You found something," Gary repeated. It wasn't a question this time.  
  
The young doctor closed the chart with a sigh, laying it on the bedside table. "We compared it with one taken when you had a head injury a few years ago," he told Gary. "It didn't . . . quite match."  
  
Gary leaned forward, propped on his elbows, not exactly sure he was hearing correctly. "S'cuse me?" he asked. "Are you saying . . . I'm not . . . me?"  
  
"Not . . . entirely," Lucas hedged nervously. He hated being on uncertain ground. "It matches in some areas and not . . .others. It may have been because the type of injury was different from your previous head trauma. Or because you were still unconscious when this one was run. Or a power fluctuation from a passing UFO! I won't know until we do a few more tests." He looked away, unable to meet the questioning, fearful look in Gary's eyes. "I'm afraid you'll need to stick around a while longer."  
  
Flopping back with a tired sigh, Gary mumbled, "How did I know you were gonna say that?"  
  
****************  
  
"I'm not going to tell you again!" Dr. Lucas insisted. "He's in no shape for you people to go in throwing a pile of baseless accusations at him! The man is seriously ill and we don't know what's causing his symptoms."  
  
The two agents exchanged worried looks. "Are these symptoms consistent with anthrax?" Pritchett asked guardedly.  
  
"No," the young physician sighed. "They seem to be of a neurological nature. He's having chest pains, seizures, headaches. No fevers or congestion since the first few days. Nor has he exhibited any lesions that could be associated with the skin form of anthrax. Look, you said yourself that the man is no longer a suspect. Why are you hounding him?"  
  
"Because we still have too many unanswered questions, doctor," Dobbs told him. "Please advise your patient that we will be speaking with him again." With that the two men turned and strode back toward the elevators.  
  
"Not if I can help it," Dr. Lucas murmured to their retreating backs.  
  
****************** 


	3. Deadly Doppleganger or The Concert From ...

The next time Gary woke up, it was to the murmur of voices outside his head, which he found to be a welcome relief. Turning his head, he saw Armstrong and Brigatti talking with Officer Tate. Didn't that guy ever take time off? Wait, what were they saying about . . . Angel?  
  
Gary tried to speak, only to find that his throat was too dry to make more than a weak croaking sound. Christ! How long had he been out this time? Looking around, he spotted a cup and pitcher on his table. Hands shaking slightly, he managed to pour a little water into the cup without spilling it. Taking a few sips, he cleared his throat and tried again.  
  
"Hi." Oh, yes. Much better. They actually heard him this time. All three heads turned to find him waving a hand. "Mind if I join in?"  
  
"Not at all," Brigatti responded with a tight-lipped grin. "How's your head, handsome?"  
  
"Ask me later," he murmured, his voice husky. "How long was I out this time?"  
  
"Long enough to miss seeing your mother and that damned cat of yours," the pretty detective snorted. "How does that thing always know where you are?"  
  
"Asking the wrong person," Gary replied with a tired grin. "Don't know how he found me in the first place." He looked past her to Armstrong. "Hey, Paul. Everything okay at home?"  
  
The big detective leaned forward in his seat, the better to meet Gary's bleary-eyed gaze. "Pretty much," he answered with a tiny half-smile. "Treyton is ready to climb the walls, and Jackson is trying to write a song about your mysterious 'Angel.' He's been begging me for days to sneak him in here so he can pick your brain about her."  
  
"Speaking of whom . . ." Toni remarked in a warning tone.   
  
"I've never even spoken to her," Gary told the fiery Italian. "How can I have something going on with someone I haven't even met yet?"  
  
"What makes you think I care if you have anything going on with anyone?" Toni asked in an arch tone. "Your social life is none of my concern."  
  
"What social life?" Gary grumbled under his breath. To Toni, he replied, "It could have something to do with the third degree you give me every time I so much as . . . never mind."  
  
"Oh, speaking of a third degree," Tate commented, "the 'Bobbsey Twins' were back this morning."  
  
"Again?" Gary sighed. "Don't these guys have a life to get back to or something?"  
  
"Apparently not," Brigatti grinned, enjoying his discomfort. "They still want to know how you knew so much about what was going to happen. Something the rest of us have been wondering for years."  
  
"Well they can keep on wondering," the young patient grumbled. "I've got problems enough without those two."  
  
Armstrong riffled the pages of a thick file he was holding in his hands. "I'll say," he commented with a shake of his head. "We were talking about your girlfriend and her partner."  
  
"Look," Gary sighed, "the only time I've even seen this woman face-to-face, she was shooting at me . . . Don't say it! I already know you've considered it. More than once, I'm sure. Have you guys been able to dig up anything about those two?"  
  
It was Tate's turn to speak up. "We think so," he said. "I finally remembered why the name 'Uncle Vinnie' kept sticking in my head. Have you ever heard of the Perelli family?"  
  
Perelli. Perelli. Where had he heard . . .? "Wait a minute." Gary's eyes grew wide and he tried to sit up as memory returned. "Any relation to Frank Perelli? The guy who . . .? Because she was gonna . . .? He's part of that family? I've been dreaming about that Uncle Vinnie?" He plopped back with a groan. "Just great!" he muttered. "Mixed up with the Mob . . . again! What about the other two? Angel and Stevie. We know Angel is a killer. Is Stevie her partner?"  
  
"Steve Rossellini," Armstrong replied, tossing a file in Gary's lap. "Also known as 'The Rose'. Wanted in almost every state, and more than one foreign country, for murder. One of the top ten assassins in the world! And he's hunting you."  
  
Gary looked at the file as if it were a rattlesnake ready to strike. Top ten. In the whole world. Wonderful. "And, umm, Angel?"  
  
"That one's a puzzle," Toni Brigatti fumed. "Our only report on her indicates that Rossellini was trying to kill her a couple of years ago. Him and some young buck he was supposed to be training for Perelli. Then she disappears, and everyone assumes that Rossellini caught up with her. But Pirelli's nephew, Nicky, turns up dead along with his regular entourage. And the mysterious young protégé is never seen again." She tossed another folder on top of the Rossellini file. "Meet Angel Chaste."  
  
Hands trembling more than a little now, Gary reached down and flipped open the top file. There, staring up at him from a color glossy, were the intense green eyes from his nightmares.   
  
"She's, um, not . . . not missing anymore," he gulped. "That's . . . that's the one who shot at me a few days ago." Closing the folder and laying it aside, he picked up the one beneath it. Opening it slowly, he peered at the picture inside. He had not seen the driver, or the intruder in his room that first night, but he had seen this face before. "And, um, this is the guy fr-from . . . Th-that's Stevie, alright."  
  
"Bingo," Toni remarked acidly. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Hobson."  
  
************************  
  
"It'll work!" Buddy was saying as Bernie walked in with their lunch. "We can get these guys so confused they won't know which way to duck!"  
  
"I dunno," Clay drawled. "Gary seems a little . . . Don't get me wrong, Buddy. He's the nicest guy I've ever met, but he's real high-strung. Are you sure he won't freeze-up on us?"  
  
Buddy was pacing energetically in the open space between the bed and the sofa. He was so excited, he was practically bouncing on his toes. "Don't worry," he grinned. "I heard the tape Dusty was tellin' me about. Cuz has a great voice. He just needs a little push."  
  
"Are you guys talkin' about Gary?" Bernie asked as he set the tray down.  
  
"Sure," Buddy replied. "If this works out, he could have a whole new career as a country singer."  
  
"My Gary?" Bernie asked skeptically. "Mr. 'I don't even sing in the shower' Hobson? Are you nuts? He gets stage-fright singing Christmas carols!"  
  
"Well, maybe he's gotten over that," Buddy persisted. "That Crumb fella said he did real good in some play a while back."  
  
"That's apples and oranges," the elder Hobson snorted. "He was one of a whole cast of amateurs just out to stretch their wings a little. It's something else entirely to get up there by yourself with a whole crowd of people starin' atcha. He'd choke for sure. Besides, he doesn't dare show his face, right now. Not with those two killers out there."  
  
Buddy stopped his pacing to face Bernie, an excited gleam in his eyes. "That's the whole point!" he said. "We want to draw these jokers out. The only way to do that is with real good bait. Now, Clay and I've been cooped up here for the past week, and we're getting a little stir crazy. What I'm suggesting is that we let ourselves be seen in different parts of town at the same time. Someone can sneak us out of here and we can hide on the back floorboard of their car until we're well away from here. Doing something to attract these guys attention. Something that would make these guys think Gary was out of the hospital and on the prowl, so to speak."  
  
"Ya know," Clay murmured, almost to himself, "that could work. Both of us dressed just alike, seen on opposite sides of town . . . We could have them chasin' their own tails. They won't know what to expect from 'im. Then we give 'em a time and place where they know he'll be, and they have to go for it."  
  
"Exactly!" Buddy exclaimed enthusiastically. "It'll be the only time they can be sure of gettin' a clear shot at 'im! Only, they won't be able to get near 'im! Not with thousands of people around as witnesses!"  
  
"Not to mention half a dozen police bodyguards," Clay reminded his brother. "He'll be watched over better than the President."  
  
Dazed, Bernie eased down on the sofa next to Clay. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You two want to set yourselves up as decoys to get those killers all worked up so you can use Gary as bait to flush 'em out. Is that right?" Both men nodded. "And where, exactly, did you plan to spring this little surprise, and what has it got to do with Gary's singing debut?"  
  
Buddy and Clay exchanged tight little grins, then Buddy turned back to Bernie, a wicked gleam in his eye.  
  
"That's the best part."  
  
He quickly explained the rest of his plan. Bernie listened intently, still skeptical, at first, but with growing interest. It was crazy, he decided. Just crazy enough to work. Possibly. They would have to convince Brigatti and Armstrong. Bernie didn't really see that as being much of a problem. The hard part would be convincing Lois. She would have a fit at the very idea. Even harder, though, would be getting Gary to go along.   
  
*******************  
  
"I'd rather be shot!"  
  
Gary was sitting straight up in bed, staring at his father in horrified fascination. Was he really suggesting that he . . . That they . . .? Was he seriously . . .?  
  
"Dad, please tell me you're joking," he begged. "That you're not even considering . . . Would you really want me to do something like this?"  
  
"It makes sense, Gar," his dad argued. "In a crazy sorta way. Get these characters off base, and then throw 'em a curve! It's perfect!"  
  
"Define 'perfect'!" Gary grumbled. "I let them wander around Chicago, in hopes that someone starts taking pot-shots at 'em? No way!"  
  
"But Gary," Bernie replied with an evil grin, "they don't know we have three of you! I've talked with the Doc. He says they can hide you away in the Sleep Disorder Lab until you're well enough to go home. Meanwhile, we're rockin' the boat under these yahoos until they're ready to shoot each other. Then, POW! we hit 'em with the grand slam!"  
  
"Announcing to the whole world that I'll be at a certain place, at a certain time," Gary finished for him. "With a bull's eye on my back and a sign saying 'Here I am. Shoot me!' And they want me to sing on top of that? In public? Couldn't I just take an ad in the paper? 'Dear Angel and Stevie, I'll save you the trouble and kill myself before my family and friends humiliate me to death!'"  
  
Brigatti and Winslow had been listening with growing interest.   
  
"I dunno," the blonde cop grinned. "It has potential. If you get the right song, you could end up with a record deal."  
  
"I don't want . . .!" Gary shot them a pained look as he realized he was being baited. "Very funny. Ha ha. You do realize, of course, that someone could end up dead? Or seriously injured? Not to mention that I was brought in here with a collapsed lung! Should I be trying to sing after that?" He directed his last question at Dr. Lucas, who was just walking in the door. 'Please say no,' he prayed. 'Please please please!'  
  
To his disappointment, the tall doctor just shrugged and said, "No reason why you can't. From what they tell me, you have a little over a week to recuperate before you have to perform."  
  
"Isn't anyone willing to see my side in this?" he asked plaintively.   
  
"Apparently not," Brigatti remarked with a grin of her own. "Personally, I'm dying to find out if you can sing as well when you're sober as you could when you were delirious."  
  
"It's only because I was delirious that I was singing at all!" the patient protested, burying his face in his hands. "C'mon, guys! Have a heart! Don't make me do this!"  
  
Bernie patted his son gently on the shoulder. "Sorry, kiddo," he replied, "but as they always usta say in Vaudeville, the show must go on."  
  
Gary lowered his hands and fixed his dad with a steady look. Before he could come up with a suitably scathing remark, Dr. Lucas spoke up.  
  
"Your lungs aren't going to be your biggest problem," he told Gary. "Nor will your ribs, which should be mostly healed by then. My concern is these blackouts and headaches you've been having. Not to mention that episode of chest pain. Which, by the way, we still haven't found a reason for." He reached down and tilted Gary's head up to the light. "How long have you had this?" he asked with a puzzled frown.  
  
"Had what?" Gary asked sullenly. Sing. They wanted him to sing! In public no less!  
  
"This red patch on your forehead," the doctor explained. "It wasn't there when I examined you last evening. Have you hit your head since then?"  
  
"Until about an hour ago, Doc," Gary sighed, "I've been asleep since the last time I saw you. What mark?"  
  
Wordlessly, Dr. Lucas held up a small hand mirror. Puzzled, Gary looked at his reflection. There, just above the bridge of his nose, was the exact same mark he had seen on his doppelganger. He reached a slightly trembling hand up to touch his forehead and felt a small, flat circle of raised, very tender flesh. 'Oh my God,' he thought. 'It was me in the mirror, looking over my own shoulder?'  
  
"That wasn't there when we came in," Brigatti observed. "And he hasn't been out of bed without an escort, I assure you." She gingerly touched the reddened mark, causing Gary to flinch. "My, aren't we touchy!"  
  
"Sorry," Gary mumbled. "Every time it's touched, I get this . . . pain . . . shooting all the way to the back of my skull." Nervously, he wiped his good hand on the front of his gown, only to stop, wincing as he felt another sharp pain. Startled, he gave the doctor a fearful look before lifting the neck of his gown and peering underneath.   
  
"Let me see," Lucas insisted gently. He pulled the top of the gown off to reveal a similar lesion just to the left of Gary's breastbone. A gentle touch brought a hiss of pain from his patient. The young doctor looked up into frightened, muddy-green eyes. "I think we need to run a few more tests."  
  
****************  
  
The next five days were consumed with test after test. Gary was positive that he had lain in every kind of machine the hospital had available. He had been scanned, poked, prodded, and probed in ways he had never imagined before. They had run probes over him, under him . . . and into him in places he didn't even want to think about! He had spent hours hooked up to machines that recorded every blink of his eyes, it seemed. By the time Armstrong had managed to slip Buddy in to see him in his new quarters, Gary was too exhausted to worry about the up-coming concert.  
  
"You look like hell, Cuz," Buddy observed sympathetically. "Are you up to this?"  
  
"Sure," Gary murmured tiredly. "Let's get this over with. Ask your questions."  
  
Buddy scribbled furiously as Gary described, in detail, everything he could remember about the mysterious 'Angel' from his dreams. The way her looks changed, like a chameleon. Her innocence and her evil. How she went from warm and frightened to hard and cold almost in the same breath. He also described how she was hunted, only to turn the tables and become the hunter. The cold, efficient way she dispatched the men who had her cornered. The flame of passion in her eyes as she pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into his heart.   
  
"And the head," he mumbled, rubbing at his right temple. "Don't forget the head. She . . . she seems to come alive when she's killing someone. Kinda like it's a turn on for her."  
  
"Sounds like a serious head-case to me, Cuz," Buddy remarked with a shudder. "This chick needs to be taken off the streets any way possible."  
  
"I know," Gary sighed. "but I don't understand why I have this feeling of . . . guilt whenever I have those dreams. Like I'm responsible for her being this way."  
  
Buddy tapped his pen against his lower lip as he concentrated on an idea. "Since Angel and Stevie are real," he suggested, "then so must this dude she shot. The one you keep looking out of while all this stuff is happenin'. Does he have a name?"  
  
Gary ran over everything he remembered from the dreams in his mind. A name. He couldn't seem to recall . . . Wait! What had Tate said after that first night?  
  
"Tony," he replied. "I think his first name was Tony. At least, that's a name I'm supposed to 've called out that doesn't seem to fit anyone else. He . . . he loved her. Was asking her to marry him when she . . . And she smiled when she did it! Like he was giving her the most wonderful gift in the world by dying! Man, she was cold!"  
  
"Poor guy probably never stood a chance with her," Buddy mumbled, shaking his head. He closed his notebook and took a good look at his twin. "Seriously, cuz, what've they been doin' to ya? You look terrible."  
  
"Trust me, Buddy," Gary sighed. "You really don't wanna know. I don't think they have a single machine left I haven't seen the inside of. Or hasn't seen the inside of me! They've taken skin samples, hair samples, stool, urine and blood samples. They've even drilled holes to take bone marrow samples. Even my . . . my sperm! And I don't even wanna talk about how they got that!"  
  
Buddy couldn't hide a grin. "That one musta been the easiest, Gary," he chuckled. "All you had to do was . . ." He stopped at the look on Gary's face. "You couldn't . . .?"  
  
"No," Gary murmured, his face almost glowing a bright red. "I was so embarrassed when they told me what they wanted . . . and it was right after they'd stuck that light up my . . . I couldn't even . . . So they called in a specialist and . . . and God! Who thinks up this stuff? Prisoners of war 've been treated better! I'm sore in places I didn't even know I had, and others I don't wanna think about. I almost wish Angel and Stevie would come along and put me out of my misery. Did you know they had to clean you out for some of these tests? And I mean really clean you out! This is one time in my life when no one can accuse me of being full of anything!"  
  
******************  
  
"This is ridiculous," Rossellini grumbled. He was pouring over a stack of reports from Uncle Vinnie's network of informants. The more he read, the more confusing the picture became. "No one can possibly be in that many places in so little time." He shoved a piece of paper in front of Angel. "Seven A.M. he's stopping a traffic accident on West Elm, near Seward Park." He covered the first paper with a second scrap. "Five minutes later, he's over at Comiskey Park, buying a corndog!" Another scrap joined the first two. "Ten AM. Adams Park in Little Italy. And on the Navy Pier at the exact same time!" He tossed down another sheet. "Plus he was seen entering a bank in the financial district, apparently having had enough time to change into a suit and tie! And let us not forget his best trick! At nine PM, he was seen going into a TV studio on West Taylor, eating a hotdog at Wrigley Field, going into a restaurant on West Hubbard with some skinny broad, and the Broadcast Museum on East Washington! Now, can someone please . . . tell me how one man can be in four places at the same . . . freaking . . . time?"  
  
He empathized his plea by slapping the desk with the remaining papers. Angel looked down at a jumble of conflicting reports. According to these sightings, Hobson could not be from this planet!   
  
"We ask for a pattern," she sneered, "and we get science fiction? Where did Uncle Vinnie get these bozos? I can't believe . . .!"  
  
Whatever she was about to say was lost as one of Uncle Vinnie's flunkies came running in waving a newspaper in one hand.   
  
"Uncle Vinnie thought you might like this," he said, tossing the tabloid on the desk. "Check out the entertainment section."  
  
Steve snatched the paper up, shooting the flunky a harsh look. Turning to the page in question, he quickly scanned the articles until he hit on one that caught his interest. Smiling broadly, he handed the paper to Angel.   
  
"Oh, this is perfect," she purred. Then her brow creased as a thought occurred to her. "Too perfect. You don't really think this guy could be so stupid, do you? It has to be a trap."  
  
"Of course it's a trap," Rossellini grinned. "We'll just have to be sure the bait gets caught instead of us."  
  
**************************  
  
Dr. Lucas stood outside Gary's room, working up the courage for what he had to tell his patient. They had run almost every test they could possibly justify . . . some of them twice. Now . . . Well, now he had to tell Hobson that some of them would have to be repeated . . .again. The SPECT and PET scans had been especially puzzling. The echocardiogram and gallium scan had yielded unusual results, also. Hesitantly, he pushed the door open.  
  
Gary was sitting up in a chair, reading a newspaper. Where that paper came from was anybody's guess. In spite of a twenty-four hour police guard, no one ever saw the paper delivered, yet he had one every morning. The doctor made a slight throat-clearing noise so as not to startle his patient. Hobson was touchy enough without putting him on the defensive.  
  
"Good morning," Gary mumbled without looking up. He wrote something on a pad in his lap, then lay the paper aside. Finally looking up, he frowned when he saw the doctor's expression. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't good news?"  
  
"Your, um, your test results are back," Lucas informed him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Officer Tate sitting forward at this statement. "Most of them came back perfectly normal. All your CT scans, MRIs, the barium studies, and most of the ultrasounds. The, um, the ones dealing with the . . . the functioning areas of your brain, however, are . . . well, we need to repeat those. Also the scans of your heart."  
  
"You found something." It was not a question.  
  
"Yeah-sorta," the doctor hedged. "There are some . . . questionable areas that I'd like clarified," he explained. With a sigh, he perched on the side of Gary's bed. "The SPECT and PET scans show areas of . . . artifact. We think that a glitch in the computer merged your scan with someone else's. Also, the echocardiogram came back normal, but the gallium scan, which is also of the heart, shows major trauma. Which is impossible. Both scans can't be right. And there's also this . . . odd pattern on your EEG. So we really need to repeat these studies as soon as we have the equipment checked for malfunctions."  
  
"Ma-major . . .Wh-what kind of 'trauma'?" Gary stammered nervously.  
  
The fact that the physician couldn't meet his eyes did nothing to allay Gary's apprehension.  
  
"The . . . pattern . . . is consistent with," he attempted to explain, "that is, the only time I've ever seen that kind of damage, was when we . . . we autopsied a man who . . . he'd been shot!"  
  
"Sh-shot. As in . . .?" He rubbed a hand over his chest.   
  
"Right through the pump," Lucas nodded. "All the . . . anomalies showing up on your tests . . . it's as if they're getting you confused with someone who had been shot twice. Once in the heart, and, um . . . "  
  
". . . Once in the head," Gary finished as a chill ran up his spine. What in hell was going on here? He repeatedly wiped his hands on his robe as he digested this new information. "So, um, those . . . they're the only ones you need over?"  
  
"And . . . one more," Lucas said, still not meeting his troubled gaze. "We need to . . . get a closer look at your heart with the ultrasound."  
  
Gary squinted his eyes, giving the young physician a suspicious look. "How close?"  
  
"We need to insert a probe down your throat and . . . "  
  
Gary just buried his face in his hands and moaned.   
  
*******************  
  
"Mr. Hobson has just completed an exhaustive round of tests," Dr. Lucas told the two agents. "He's really not up to receiving visitors right now."  
  
"What kind of tests?" Pritchett asked. "Anything to do with the current situation?"  
  
"If you mean are we testing for biological agents," the doctor sighed, "then the answer is 'no.' Mr. Hobson is simply not in any condition, or mood, to entertain guests at this time. As I have told you repeatedly, I will let you know when he is ready to talk to you. Until then, please leave the man alone. He has enough problems!"  
  
Dobbs leafed through a very thick file folder, apparently impressed by the variety of incidents that it contained. "Your Mr. Hobson has been a very busy boy," he observed. "He has records not only with your local police, FBI, and Justice Department, but with the State Department and our own Secret Service. We even dug up a reference to him in a case run by the CIA. He's been instrumental in preventing robberies, murders, runaways and suicides. The man is an enigma. We cannot tolerate enigmas."  
  
"Well this 'enigma' happens to be my patient," Dr. Lucas snapped. "He's also a very sick man with a team of assassins trying to make sure he doesn't get any better. Judging from what you've just told me he's a good man, with good intentions. If he survives the next few weeks, I'm sure he'll be so relieved that he'll be more than happy to talk with you. That's no guarantee that you'll be anymore successful in getting answers than I've been, so far, but you can try. Good day, sirs."  
  
*******************  
  
Two days later, Gary was watching as Dr. Lucas finally sawed through that blasted cast! As the two halves were broken away, he had to fight the urge to scratch his arm raw. And the smell! That dry, sharp, musty odor of dead skin and stale sweat. Someone handed him a wet washcloth, which he applied vigorously to his dry, itchy skin. God! What a relief!  
  
"Oh, man!" he sighed. "That feels great!" He wiggled his fingers around, then flexed his wrist experimentally. There was a little stiffness, and the muscles of his forearm felt sore but overall, it felt pretty good. A nurse asked him to hold out his hand, depositing a dollop of lotion in his palm. Taking the hint, Gary smeared it liberally over his newly freed arm. Almost instantly, the last faint itchiness subsided, although there wasn't anything he could do about how pale the extremity had become. "First good thing that's happened the last two months," he murmured.  
  
"Judging by your chart," Dr. Lucas remarked, "I'd have to agree. Have you always been this . . . unlucky?"  
  
"Not always," Gary murmured. "Just lately. So, what did our latest torture session reveal? Am I gonna live?"  
  
Dr. Lucas gave his patient a sideways look of amusement. "As far as I can determine," he replied, "yes. But every one of them came back with the same garbled results as before. It's as if we were scanning two people at once. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with any of the equipment. I can't explain it."  
  
"Maybe I should call Claire after all," Gary sighed. "I mean, if science can't explain it, what harm can it do?"  
  
"Who's Claire?"  
  
"A psychic," Gary sighed. "Seriously, I've seen her at work. She's the real article."  
  
The look he got this time said that Dr. Lucas had some serious doubts about his sanity.  
  
"A psychic?" he exclaimed. "You're joking!"  
  
"No," Gary replied with a shrug. "I've got to find out what's going on here, Doc," he added grimly. "Something is messing with my mind, and it's screwing up my body in the process. Ever since I passed out, I've had frequent migraines, chest pains, and nightmares. And I mean really vivid, clear as crystal, honest-to-God nightmares. The kind that you wake up from and wonder what's real and what isn't. I need help. And if I have to find it in a cup of tea leaves or a crystal ball, then I'll start drinking tea and collecting paperweights!"  
  
******************  
  
He was running again. Behind him was the rapid sound of approaching footsteps. They were getting closer! Ducking into the alley, he almost bumped into a gun-wielding figure in a ski mask! With an inarticulate cry, he kicked out, catching the figure in the chest! Ducking around the fallen shape, he sprinted down the alley.   
  
The alley became a maze of winding passages and blind curves. He ran blindly, praying for a way out, only to meet one dead-end after another! He wanted out! Needed to get out! Exhausted, he leaned against the wall; his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. 'Please, God!' he prayed. 'Help me!' He jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder . . .  
  
. . . and Gary sat straight up in bed, his body bathed in sweat, breath still coming in rapid, shuddering gasps. Eyes still a little wild and unfocused, he looked around for whatever had awakened him.   
  
"Wow, Hobson," the short, sturdy woman at his bedside exclaimed quietly, "you really are a wreck! What on earth have you gotten yourself into?"   
  
"C-Claire?" he gasped, still only half-awake. "H-how long . . . how long have you been here?"  
  
"Just long enough, honey," she replied with a worried frown. "Answer my question. What's been going on with you that's got you leaving messages like that on my machine? 'Please, Claire. No one else can help me.' Like I'm your last resort?"  
  
Lying back with a relieved sigh, Gary told her, "You pretty much are. Although, if I'd known what they had in store, trust me, I'd have called you first!" He quickly explained about the first round of nightmares, the figure in the mirror, passing out, and all the other weird things that had happened since.  
  
The canny psychic sat back, listening without comment until he had finished his narrative. While he talked, she observed the way he moved, the tone of his voice, the odd stigmata on his forehead, as well as his overall appearance. At some point, she opened up her other senses, looking deeper. When he was finished, she stood up and stepped closer to the bed. Taking his chin in one hand, she turned his head from side to side, getting a better look at his face. He looked a lot thinner and paler than the last time she had seen him.   
  
"What you've just described," she told him, "is classic for a doppelganger."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"A doppelganger," she repeated, sitting. "A mirror image. Some . . . kindred spirit is looking for help. Maybe it has some mission, or unresolved issues with someone still living. From what you've told me, and what I can see, he may have died suddenly, by violence. Also, I could sense that you've crossed paths with those who brought about his death. Except . . . I'm getting mixed signals here. It's like . . . like he's not completely dead. He still has ties with the living world, and he can't let go until this is settled."  
  
"That's just great," Gary moaned. "I'm possessed by someone who isn't even dead! How is that possible?"  
  
Claire shrugged as she tried to fathom an answer. "He could be lying in a coma somewhere," she replied. "Maybe just this side of true death. He can actually feel death reaching out for him! Maybe he's even seen the 'bright light at the end of the tunnel'. Who knows? This is uncharted territory, hon."  
  
"So, can you at least tell me how to get rid of him?" Gary pleaded. "Or how to ask him what he wants with me?"  
  
"Talking to him shouldn't be too hard. Just listen to your dreams," she told him.. "He's been trying to talk to you from the beginning. Getting rid of him? That could be tricky. If he were truly dead, you'd do an exorcism. Which is really hard to do these days, because hardly anyone remembers the rituals. In this case, however, you need to find his physical body and wake him up. Reunite body and spirit."  
  
That didn't sound too hard! All he needed was to . . . Oh.   
  
"H-how would I go about doing that?" he asked cautiously. "Finding his, um, his body, that is?"  
  
"Why not start here?"  
  
Gary gave her a puzzled look. "Here? As in . . . this room? Or this hospital?"  
  
"Both," she replied with another shrug. "You can let me put you in a light trance and see if he'll tell me anything. Failing that, we can check to see if there are any patients in comas who fit your description."  
  
Gary looked over at the young officer sitting in Tate's usual place by the door. He was apparently reading a magazine, not really paying attention to what was being said. If so, he was either a very slow reader, or it was one darned interesting article! He hadn't turned a page since Gary and Claire had begun their discussion. Gary looked at his watch. Tate would be back on duty in a couple of hours. For some reason, he was reluctant to have someone he barely knew around while he was in such a vulnerable position. He and John had gotten to know each other fairly well, and he felt the young cop would be less likely to ridicule him than this guy who was so clumsy at concealing his curiosity. Also, he wanted a couple of more witnesses.  
  
Turning back to Claire, he asked, "Are you doing anything this afternoon?"  
  
***********************  
  
"I've checked Intensive Care," Carter assured him. "Also Long Term Care, and all the local hospices. No one matching your description has been admitted to any of those places, other than yourself. We're asking around to some of the other hospitals, nursing homes, what-have-you. If this . . . other . . . double of yours is in Chicago, we'll find him."  
  
"Thanks, Doc," Gary sighed drowsily. He had been given a light hypnotic drug just moments before. Wires ran from electrodes stuck to his head and chest to an array of monitors situated above the head of his bed. He blinked owlishly at the other people in the room. There was Dr. Carter, of course. Dr. Lucas and his mom were there, too. Dad was busy with an 'errand'. John Tate and Paul Armstrong were standing near the door. He had asked for Brigatti, but she'd had family obligations and couldn't make it. Claire, sitting in a chair next to his bed, patted his hand reassuringly.   
  
"We ready?" he murmured. It was getting so hard to keep his eyes open!  
  
"Just waiting for you to quit fighting the drugs," Claire told him. "Close your eyes, sweetie. That's good," she crooned in a soothing voice. "Now, imagine that you're standing at the top of a long flight of stairs. Can you see it?" Gary nodded once. "Good. Now, start walking down those steps, slowly, counting each one in your mind. When you get to twenty, I want you to stop."  
  
*********************  
  
In the surreal world of his subconscious mind, Gary found himself standing on a narrow landing, facing a bright green door. The color of the door disturbed him for some reason. Hesitantly, he reached out and grasped the knob. Following Claire's instructions, he opened the door and went in.   
  
He found himself in a scene from his nightmares. A large room. A storeroom, maybe. There were several stacks of cardboard boxes, with many more broken open and scattered about the room. A sprawled body lay among the jumbled debris, while another figure knelt beside it, openly weeping.  
  
"I'm sorry, Nicky," he was sobbing in hollow, echoing tones. "I c-couldn't let you kill her."  
  
Gary eased into the room, slowly approaching the kneeling figure. He was immediately struck by the uncanny resemblance to himself. How could there possibly be so many people who looked so much alike?   
  
"T-Tony?" he asked timorously. "Are . . . are you Tony?"  
  
"Yes," the other 'him' sighed. "I'm Tony Greco." He looked up at Gary with eyes so full of pain and sorrow, Gary felt like crying along with him. "They told him I killed Nicky!" he moaned. "How could he believe that? Nicky was more than my boss! We grew up together! He was my friend! The only reason he was here was to help me!"  
  
"Who did kill him?" Gary asked.  
  
"She did," Tony sighed. "Angel. I warned her they were coming. Told her to run. She was only defending herself, Gary!"  
  
"How do you know my name?"  
  
The other figure laughed tearfully. "How do you think?" he replied sadly. "I'm inside your mind. I know everything about you. All your secrets." He nodded at Gary's stunned expression. "Yes. Even that."  
  
"H-how did you . . . I mean . . ."  
  
"I couldn't make him hear me," he sighed. "Couldn't make him listen! He believed the lies! Believed that I killed Nicky! When you saved him, I felt . . . drawn to you. And I could feel his anger . . . at you. He thinks . . . or thought . . . you were me."  
  
"What do you want from me?"  
  
"You have to stop her," Tony sniffed. "She's become everything they wanted me to be. And more. At first, she killed to survive. But when she shot me, it was just because I bugged her. I wasn't a threat to her anymore! Now, she kills for more than just money. She loves it. She feeds on the power it gives her. Soon, she'll start killing just for the sake of killing."  
  
"She's already selected her next target," another voice spoke up. Gary spun around to find that the door he had entered through was gone. In its place was a brilliant, blinding light. As he watched, a familiar figure stepped through. A youngish man dressed in white, his narrow features arranged in an expression of peace . . . and sadness. "Your friend Polly. Unless you stop Angel, and soon, she will succeed in killing her."  
  
"I know you!" Gary whispered. "Last year! I was . . . I was dying. And you said something about . . . about it not being my time." He stepped closer. "Andrew?" Gary looked back at Tony. "Is he . . . dead?"  
  
"Not yet," Andrew sighed. "But soon. Tony carries a terrible burden of guilt. He's blaming himself for everything that's happened. For the death of his friend, for what Angel has become, and for what she will become. He refuses to see that Angel Chaste turned her face from God a long time before they met. The only way he can let go, and find peace, is in knowing that she can't hurt anyone else."  
  
Horrified, Gary looked away from the heavenly messenger. "Y-you want me to . . . to kill her," he stammered. "I can't . . ."  
  
"No!" Andrew exclaimed. "All you have to do is draw her out! With any luck, she'll be captured unharmed."  
  
"Luck!" Gary squeaked. "Do you know what they want me to do? Knowing that she's gonna be in the audience? With a gun!"  
  
"You'll do fine, Gary," the Angel of Death chuckled. "God gave you a wonderful voice."  
  
"Yeah? Well, he forgot to give me the cajones to use it," Gary mumbled. He looked around, alarmed. "Can everyone hear what I'm saying?"  
  
"No," Andrew assured him. "You slipped into a deeper trance than they anticipated. In fact, they're starting to get a little worried. We'll have to let you wake up in a moment. But first, I have to tell you what's needed of you. First and foremost, stop Angel. She has the potential to become the worst multiple murderer in modern history. Second, Tony's soul must be reunited with his body or the two of you will be locked together until you die."  
  
"Ho, boy," Gary sighed. "Now there's a cheery thought."  
  
***********************  
  
"He's coming around! Gary? Gary, can you hear me?"   
  
Dr. Carter's voice was coming at him as if from a tremendous distance. Gary felt as if he were swimming against a strong current. Gradually, he fought his way back to something close to full consciousness.  
  
"Gary," Carter repeated, "can you hear me?"  
  
"Um," Gary mumbled. "I'm awake . . . sorta. Wha' happened? Wha'd I say?"  
  
"Absolutely nothing," Claire sighed. "You started describing a room, where you met Tony. Then you slipped under so deep, we couldn't wake you. That was almost twenty minutes ago. Did you learn anything?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I learned that I need to get ready for my big debut."  
  
***********************  
  
They kept Gary sequestered in the sleep lab until the day before the concert. Brigatti and Winslow hid him in the trunk of an unmarked car, sneaking him in through the back door of McGinty's late that afternoon. He was immediately taken upstairs where Clay and Buddy started drilling him on his part in the trap. As well as helping him rehearse 'his' song. Gary had to recite the words to the song Buddy had written over and over. Then, with Buddy and Clay both accompanying him on guitars, he practiced putting it to music.   
  
It was after three in the morning when, pleading exhaustion, Gary finally persuaded them to call it a night. He accomplished this by the simple method of collapsing onto the bed and refusing to budge. Soon he was sound asleep.  
  
*****************  
  
"I don't know if they'll be awake yet," Lois was telling Detectives Armstrong and Winslow. "They were still practicing when we went to bed. Poor Gary. This has him scared to death!"  
  
Winslow was leading the way up the stairs as they talked. "What?" he joked. "The assassins or the concert?"  
  
"Actually," Lois giggled, "I think it's the concert that's getting to him the worst. All you have to do is say the word and watch all the blood drain from his face. I just hope he doesn't freeze up on stage."  
  
"He'll do fine," Armstrong assured her, trying not to break out with a grin of his own. "I sat in on one of their rehearsals last night. Can't say much for the song, I'm a rhythm and blues fan myself. But Gary has a pretty good voice and great timing. What is that noise!"  
  
'Oh, dear!' Lois thought. Having slept in the same room with Bernie for almost thirty-seven years, not to mention having gone in to wake up her son on many occasions, she recognized that God-awful racket right away. He had never been this loud before!  
  
Reaching the head of the stairs, Lois hurried to be the first to open the door, only to have Winslow beat her to it. He flung open the portal, intending to startle the sleepers into wakefulness. Instead, he staggered back as his eardrums were assaulted by a loud, rumbling noise that would have done justice to an avalanche or a freight train! Covering his ears, the blonde detective bravely ventured into the cacophony. What he saw was three identical figures sprawled in various positions about the room. Gary, or the one he thought must be Gary, by the pallor of his left arm, was flat on his back on the bed. A second 'Gary' was stretched out on the couch, also flat on his back. The third 'Gary' was draped over the armchair, head back and mouth wide open. It was from these separate, but identical, sources that the horrific noise was emanating! As they watched, fascinated, Gary number one rolled over, hugging his pillow. The noise level immediately dropped a notch.  
  
"Let's wake Buddy and Clay up first," Lois suggested, raising her voice in order to be heard. "Gary needs his rest."  
  
"Anyone who can snore like that," Armstrong remarked, "has slept long enough! Let's get everybody up." He reached over to shake Gary awake, only to draw back as Hobson flipped over on his back once more. The room suddenly fell silent as the other two were awakened at almost the same moment, making it easier to hear Gary's incoherent mumblings. Paul tried again, actually placing his hand on Gary's shoulder. Suddenly, the sleeping man sprang up, a look of panic on his face!  
  
"Angel . . .!" He stopped abruptly, wide-awake. Looking around at the five anxious faces, two of them his own, Gary realized that he had been dreaming . . . again. "Um, hi? A-anybody put the coffee on?"  
  
**********************  
  
"Triplets?" Dobbs murmured in consternation. The two agents were waiting outside the Union Center auditorium. They had been unable to procure tickets. Evidently, Dusty Wyatt had a large following in the Windy City. "Triplets! How the hell do you figure triplets into this mess?"  
  
"Do we know anything about the movements of the other two prior to 9/11?" Pritchett asked.  
  
"Jackson is a songwriter whose movements are well documented as he's been plugging a song of his that hit the top ten on the country charts," the other man sighed. "As well as two songs that won awards for best soundtrack on some movie. Treyton has been going hot and heavy on the rodeo circuit. Both men are very successful at what they do, which doesn't leave them any time for terrorist activities. And no ties at all with the Taliban or bin Laden."  
  
"So, we're back to square one," Pritchett sighed. "How in the living hell did Hobson know?"  
  
*****************  
  
"I can do this. I can do this," Gary kept mumbling to himself as he paced the narrow confines of the dressing room. "I know I can do this! Aw, Christ! Who'm I tryin' to kid? I'm dead!"  
  
"You'll do fine, cuz," Buddy chuckled. "Just remember to let the bass set your timin' and let the music take you where it will."  
  
"Where it'll take me is a nervous breakdown," Gary muttered, almost to himself. He plopped down into the nearest chair. "I'm gonna choke. I just know it." He looked over at the twins. It had been Buddy's idea to dress them in identical outfits. From the black Stetsons down to the snakeskin boots, they were absolutely identical in every detail. "This is easy for you two. You're used to being in front of an audience! I'm more the backstage type. L-let someone else have all the credit. You've got me headlining with Dusty Wyatt Chandler!" he exclaimed, making expressive gestures with his hands. "Headlining! 'Introducing Gary Hobson.' And an article in the Sun-Times! I've already had calls from Mollie Green and Miguel Diaz, wanting interviews! How can I go back to just being a barkeeper after all this?" He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. "I'm a dead man."  
  
Clay sat twirling his hat on his right hand. He seemed to be the calmest of the three. But then, he didn't have to get up and sing in front of a few thousand people. Nor had he written the song. His part in the evenings activities would most likely occur later, when all hell broke loose.   
  
"Don't sweat it, Gary," he drawled lazily. "The worst that can happen is getting shot. And you already know what that's like."  
  
"I know what dying is like, too," Gary grumbled. "That doesn't mean I want to do it again."  
  
A stagehand knocked on the door, saying, "You're on in five, Mr. Hobson!"  
  
"And dead in six," Gary sighed.  
  
**********************  
  
Angel and Stevie eased back into their seats after the brief intermission. Both were almost totally unrecognizable from their pictures. Rossellini had streaked his hair with gray, and wore a goatee. This new look was topped off with a tan Stetson, and a brightly patterned Western jacket. Ms. Chaste had changed her hair to strawberry blonde. She was also dressed for the occasion in jeans and boots. It had been ridiculously simple to slip past security.   
  
They had sat through the first half of the show, and even found themselves enjoying the music. but they'd been unable to slip backstage to find Hobson. Unlike the guards out front, these were very serious about their job. No one got past them without either a badge or a pass. And they had several computer generated 'photographs' showing Angel and Stevie with different hairstyles and colors, as well as in various disguises. Going backstage became a non-option in a hurry.  
  
"Can you hit him from here?" Stevie asked in a barely audible whisper.  
  
"No problem," Angel replied, never losing her relaxed smile. "And I just spotted a bonus. Check out front row center. Look familiar?"  
  
Without turning his head, Steve looked at the seat out of the corners of his eyes. All he could see was the back of a head of very thick dark blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail. "The tech?" he asked. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Oh, yes," she purred. "I heard her talking as she walked past us. I will never forget that voice. I've got to find some way to get her before we leave. I owe her."  
  
******************  
  
Armstrong and Winslow stood on either side of Gary as he nervously awaited his cue. They were still a little worried that he might bolt, which was an option that Gary was seriously considering at the moment. He kept bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and rubbing his hands together, as if to restore circulation.  
  
"Just take some deep breaths," Winslow advised him. "In and out, real slow. That's it. We'll be right here, covering your back."  
  
"It's not my back I'm worried about," Gary confessed. "It's what's in front of me. Did you see that crowd? And those are serious fans! What if I choke? What if I forget the words? What if they start shooting?"  
  
"We've got men stationed in the audience," Paul assured him for the hundredth time. "We'll spot Stevie and Angel the second they make their move."  
  
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Almost forgot about them," Gary winced. "I was talkin' about the rest of the audience."  
  
Dusty finished his current set, and started a glowing introduction for his new 'discovery.'  
  
"He's a little shy, folks," he concluded with a big smile, "so let's be gentle with him. Here he is for his singin' debut. Chicago's own . . . Gary Hobson!"  
  
This was it! Hesitantly, Gary stepped through the curtains. One look at the audience, and he turned to run, only to be pushed back onstage by the two detectives. Two of Dusty's band spun him around, grabbed him by the elbows, and 'escorted' him to center stage beside Dusty.  
  
"Feelin' a little nervous, son?" the veteran singer asked kindly, to the general amusement of the audience.   
  
"N-not," he squeaked. Gary cleared his throat and tried again, attempting a casual tone. "Not so's you'd notice."  
  
That brought another smattering of laughter. Gary used the diversion to scan the sea of faces before him. They had to be here! If he went through all this for nothing . . .!   
  
"Are you ready?"  
  
"N-not really," Gary stammered into the mike. "but, um, this friend wrote a . . . a little song about this girl. She . . . she's a very . . . unusual girl. Her name is Angel." There! Fifth row, just three seats left of center. She looked him right in the eye just as the band started up a lively tempo. Gary waited for his cue, then . . .  
  
"Hair of red with the soul of a child  
All alone in a world gone wild  
Spent her days with her Daddy who wasn't right in the head  
At night she went to work preparin' the dead."  
  
Because he was watching her, Gary saw her beautiful face freeze in shock. Encouraged, he started to loosen up, getting into the swing of the music.  
  
"Into her town came a handsome guy  
To try to take her life, she didn't know why  
She wasn't takin' this one lyin' down  
He'd regret the day he came into her town!"  
  
She turned to the man next to her, saying something in hissing tones. Oops! The song must be getting under her skin! Good! Gary continued with a little more confidence.  
  
"She went and changed her hair to silver fire  
To match a lonely soul full of burning desire.  
That pretty little lady so lost and alone  
Turned her blood to ice and her heart to stone!"  
  
Her face was twisted into a vicious snarl as she reached a hand into her vest. Whoa! Showtime! He pointed a finger straight at the duo in a pre-arranged signal. 'There they are!' he thought. 'Get 'em!' He and Dusty swung into the chorus together.  
  
"She has nerves of steel and a heart of ice  
She can blow you away and not think twice  
A one-way ticket to Paradise,  
That pretty little Angel of mine!"  
  
Gary took the mike to the edge of the stage, his eyes locked with the woman who had haunted his nightmares these past few weeks. The woman who was here to take his life!  
  
"They hunted her out both night and day  
But Angel was ahead each step of the way  
She finally turned the tables on that handsome man  
And had his heart in the palm of her hand"  
  
Angel looked as if she were having trouble breathing. The man beside her was trying to drag her attention back to the present. He had both hands on the arm she had stuck inside her vest, speaking in low, urgent tones. Gary deliberately cut his eyes away, his part done. He moved his eyes over the rest of the audience, as if presenting a case in court.  
  
"He told her that he loved her, she set his soul afire  
With a flame so hot, like a funeral pyre  
She smiled so sweet, and then knocked him dead   
With one to the heart and one to the head!"  
  
Dusty again joined in for the rest of the song.  
  
"Now Angel has a new life, no longer alone  
That woman's livin' large and close to the bone  
A stone cold killer with innocent eyes  
Let me give you all a word to the wise  
  
She has nerves of steel and a heart of ice  
She'll blow you away and not think twice  
A one way ticket to paradi-i-ise!"  
  
"She's one of a kind," Gary said in his normal voice, then once again joined with Dusty to finish.  
  
"That pistol packin' Angel of mine!"  
  
The audience roared its approval of the unusual, fast-beat tune, as Gary stepped back, returning the mike to Dusty. Sweating, the young barkeep gave the crowd a nervous smile as he continued to edge toward the curtains.  
  
He was looking right at her once more, otherwise he might not have acted in time. As Angel pushed Stevie away, she pulled out what looked like a large handgun and aimed it straight at Gary! Alarmed, the crowd trampled all over each other in their haste to flee from her immediate vicinity, leaving her a clear shot.   
  
Gary's eyes grew wide and he dove for the stage floor as the weapon spat out its silenced message of death! Something plucked at the sleeve of his shirt as he hit the hardwood. Another 'phfft!' and the tinkle of glass shattering was heard as one of the spotlights winked out! Dusty called out something to Gary as one of the stagehands dragged the star to safety. The rest of the band was less than a step behind. Someone tried to pull on Gary's arm, only to jump back themselves as another bullet whizzed past.  
  
So long as Angel was surrounded by innocent bystanders, the police could not shoot back. That left it up to Gary. Cautiously raising his head, he was forced to duck again as something whistled past his left ear. He tried again and saw Angel scrambling over the seats in her haste to get a better shot at him. To his horror, he also spotted a familiar face rise up in front of her! Polly? What the . . .? Without thinking, he rolled off the stage and grabbed the irate tech as she was about to swing at the assassin. Dragging her behind him, he ran all out for the stairs leading back up to the stage, as another projectile went whizzing past. He was not surprised to find that everyone else had fled. That was pretty high on his list of priorities, too. Still clutching Polly's arm, Gary ducked into the backstage area, almost bowling over Detective Winslow.  
  
"This way," the blonde cop hissed. "We have to get you out of sight. What's she doing here?"  
  
"I was . . . just about to . . . to ask her," Gary panted. He looked at his friend, eyes asking the questions he was too winded to voice.  
  
"I'm a Dusty Wyatt fan," she shrugged. "Love your voice, by the way. Plannin' a new career?"  
  
"No," Gary replied quickly, as they followed Winslow. "Just trolling for hit men. We've gotta get her outta here," he said to the detective. "She's in as much danger as I am. Angel's got some kinda grudge against her."  
  
"That's 'cause I kicked her butt," Polly snorted. "What's the plan?"  
  
"The plan is for you to go into that dressing room," Gary told her, "and lock the door. Don't come out until I tell you to." As he spoke, he was pushing her towards the door. "I'm serious, Polly. These guys are not here for the show!"  
  
"Kinda figured that," she grumbled. With a sigh of frustration, Polly started into the room. "You'd best recall where you left me, sweetie," she added as she closed and locked the door.  
  
"That sounded like a pretty good plan for yourself," Winslow commented. "Why don't you join Ms. Gannon until we round these two up?"  
  
"If there were just the two of them, I would," was Gary's nervous response. "but while I was grabbing Polly, I saw that Rossellini character talking to a bunch of guys, and they didn't look like cops! We're about to have a bloodbath on our hands if we don't wind this up quick!" He ducked his head and cast a nervous glance back at the curtains. Angel could be coming through any second! "What happened to all the men you have in the audience?"  
  
"I don't know," the blonde cop grumbled as he led Gary into a narrow hallway, past more dressing rooms. "They were supposed to block the exits and surround Rossellini and Chaste. Best I can figure is, someone got their wires crossed and all our people are outside. Whoa!"  
  
Both men ducked as something ricocheted off the wall next to Gary's head! Stone chips left stinging welts on the exposed areas of Gary's skin! Picking up his pace, the young barkeep couldn't suppress a feeling of déjà vu. Hadn't he already been this route?   
  
***********  
  
The two NSA agents jumped out of their vehicle as people poured out of the auditorium. What the hell was going on inside? In vain, they pushed their way through the crowd, only to have the doors slam shut in their faces at the last second. By the time they reached the doors, they had been bolted from the inside. Pritchett let out with a string of curses that could have blistered the paint off the wall.  
  
"Now what?" he growled. "What more trouble can this guy get into?"  
  
"With Hobson," Dobbs huffed, "who knows?"  
  
************  
  
Clay Treyton poked his head out the door leading to right-hand backstage hall. There he was, the man Armstrong claimed was one of the top ten hit men in the world. Clay watched as Steve Rossellini sent men up on the stage to the other backstage door and to the various exits. The veteran assassin then turned towards Clay's hiding place. Easing back, the young cowboy let the door swing closed as he formulated a plan of his own. He ran to the first bend in the hallway and stopped, waiting.   
  
Rossellini flung the door open, checking to make sure it was safe before entering the hallway. As soon as he saw the man he thought was his target, he fired off a silenced round, only to give vent to a string of curses when his shot missed. He immediately gave chase as the young man ducked around the corner. Again, he checked before exposing himself to possible attack. What he saw almost made him laugh!  
  
Hobson was standing in the middle of the empty hall, both hands wrapped around a large automatic pistol. 'Who's he trying to kid?' Stevie thought. He stepped boldly into the middle of the hallway, his own gun dangling by his side.  
  
"I know all about you, Hobson," he said with a dry chuckle. "You hate guns. You couldn't pull that trigger if your life depended on it. Which it does, by the way. Now, Tony, this old friend of mine you just . . . happen to look like; he could pull that trigger. But his heart really wasn't in it. He was a damned good shot and could do some damage! But he just wasn't a killer." He raised his gun and took careful aim. "And you're not Tony!"  
  
A loud report rang out and, with a strangled cry of pain and surprise, Rossellini grasped his shattered hand, sinking to his knees. The remains of his pistol clattered to the floor as the young man he had been taunting lowered his gun.   
  
Clay walked up to the assassin and yanked him to his feet. Pulling Rossellini in until their noses almost touched, he said, "Just so's you know, sport, I ain't Gary, either." He then pulled back his fist and turned the lights out on one of the top ten assassins . . . in the whole world.  
  
*****************  
  
Winslow herded his charge toward the back door as they attempted to elude the enraged woman hot on their heels. 'Where the hell did all our men get to?' the blonde detective wondered. He yanked Gary through a set of double doors as another shot ricocheted less than six inches from the young barkeep's head. They found themselves in a large, heavily cluttered storeroom. Props of every size, shape, and description lay about in stacks and heaps. Gary tugged urgently on Winslow's arm and pointed out a large, freestanding wardrobe with louvered doors over in the right-hand corner. It was big enough to hold at least one of them, and had ample space between it and the back wall to conceal the other.   
  
"Take your pick," Gary whispered. "In or out?"  
  
"Out," was the detective's quick reply. "Not crazy about small spaces."  
  
"Me, neither," Gary sighed, "but you have the gun. Let's hurry!"  
  
Each man took his chosen position just seconds before they heard the faint but steady 'crriick' of one of the double doors easing open. Squeezing himself into the cramped space, Gary positioned himself so that he could peer out through the tiny slit created by a missing slat. He watched as Angel and two men entered the room, guns ready. With quick, sharp gestures, she sent them to search opposite sides of the room while she eased down the center. With the same kind of fascination of the mouse for the snake, Gary watched her slow progress. Part of him was mesmerized by her graceful movements . . . the way the dim illumination played with the highlights of her hair, the planes and shadows of her face.   
  
Another part of him, the part that was him, told Tony to back off and leave him alone. This was most definitely not the time! She was close enough for him to catch a faint whiff of her perfume!   
  
The two gunmen were forced to go more slowly, pausing to search every shadowed area large enough to hide a grown man. When she was less than five feet from the back wall, she turned so that her back was to him, keeping her gun trained so that it covered the way she had come. Stepping back, she kept looking to each side. If anything moved, she was going to see it. In just another minute, she'd be able to see Winslow! And he wouldn't see her until it was too late!   
  
Torn between his instinct to survive and the need to protect, Gary could only wait breathlessly as the assassins drew closer to their hiding place. As the woman of Tony's dreams reached for the wardrobe door, Gary made his move. With a savage cry of fear and defiance, he slammed the door open as hard as he could! At the same instant, he shot both hands up, grasped the top edge of the opening and kicked out with both feet, catching her square in the chest!   
  
Before either of the other two could react, Gary had followed through on the impetus of his surprise attack and launched himself over the nearest pile of clutter. He hit the floor running, getting halfway to the door before they could get off a shot. Dodging like a broken field runner, Gary made it to the beckoning portal just as one of them found his mark.  
  
Pain seared Gary's right arm as he dashed through the opening and into the hall, almost plowing into a third gunman. Without slowing, Gary straight-armed the man and ran right over him. He could hear Angel's strident cursing as she railed at the thugs to give chase. Good! If they were chasing him, then Winslow was safe. He hoped.  
  
*********************  
  
The blonde detective cursed silently as he tried to extricate himself from his hiding place before the last gunman disappeared out the door. Angel was already racing down the corridor after Hobson. Why couldn't that man stay put? Moving silently, Winslow hurried up behind the thug, who had paused to check that the hallway was clear. He tapped the man on the shoulder.  
  
"Excuse me," he said. When the thug spun around, Winslow brought the butt of his gun against the man's head. As the gunman collapsed in a heap, he added, "You forgot your pass."  
  
Winslow quickly confiscated the gun and cuffed the thug to a metal shelf. Closing the door carefully behind him, he tried to intuit which way Hobson would've run. "Yeah, right," he grumbled. "Go chase the wind, why don't cha?" And headed down what he hoped was the right direction.  
  
*****************  
  
From her listening post at the dressing room door, Polly heard the sound of a single pair of booted feet running past. Shortly after that came what sounded like a small stampede, with a familiar female voice snapping orders. That didn't sound good for Gary. Cautiously, she eased the door open, just in time to see a dark-suited figure disappear around the corner. Damned if she was going to just stand there while they gunned her friend down! Looking around, she couldn't see anything that she could use for a weapon. Maybe on stage . . .  
  
********************  
  
Gary started back for the front of the auditorium, only to detour down a side corridor when he saw two men with guns standing by the main entrance. Having no idea whose side they were on, he decided not to press the issue. He ducked into an empty office just as Angel and her entourage came galloping up, pausing at the intersection. She quickly proved the wisdom of his decision by calling out, asking if the two men had seen him. He began easing the door shut, only to have her turn suddenly and look straight at him. Slamming and locking the door, he looked around frantically for some kind . . . any kind of concealment! The best he could see was either behind an old metal desk, or a metal cabinet with double doors. "I'm dead," he murmured to himself. "But Lord, if I do get out of this alive, I'm never even gonna sing 'Happy Birthday!'" he vowed.  
  
A shot rang out on the other side of the door, followed by a loud 'bam!' as someone kicked the door! Out of options, Gary headed for the desk. He froze, however, when another kick sent the door flying open with a bang! Turning slowly, he faced the trio standing just inside the door. As he turned, Gary brought both hands up even with his shoulders.  
  
"Y-you don't need to do this," he told them nervously. "I-I'm no threat to you. And it'll only get Sung the death penalty!"  
  
"This isn't about Sung anymore, Tony," Angel replied in a sultry purr. "It's about unfinished business. I don't know how you survived, but it's time to put an end to your interference."  
  
"T-Tony?" Gary gave her a puzzled look. "I'm not . . . Why would you think . . . ?"  
  
"That damned song, for one," she told him with a malicious grin. "Only three people were there when I shot you. Myself, Steve Rossellini, and you. Now, I know Steve wouldn't go writing a song about a murder, and I certainly didn't. That left you, lover. Then there's that scar on your forehead. In the exact same spot my bullet hit you over four years ago. That's a bit much for a coincidence, don't you think?"  
  
Angel was so wrapped up in her monologue, she didn't hear a muffled grunt behind her as one of her henchmen disappeared. Neither did the other man, who never let his gun waver from Gary's chest.  
  
"I'm not . . . I'm not Tony," Gary tried to assure her. "I'm j-just me, G-Gary Hobson. I run this little bar on Illinois and Franklin. Th-that's all I do! I was just . . . just in the wrong place at the wrong time! A guy shouldn't have to die for that!"  
  
"Save it, Greco," she snapped, eyes suddenly hard, like green ice. "I know it's you!" Angel stepped in closer, backing him against the wall. As Gary watched, fascinated, her expression became soft, seductive. "That first time, when I caught you coming out of the shower," she whispered, stroking the barrel of the gun down his left cheek, "I almost killed you right there. Then you said you loved me! No one's ever said that to me before. Or since. Later, at the mortuary, you said it again, and I thought, 'How sweet! He really means it!' That's when I knew," she murmured huskily, her lips almost brushing his.   
  
Bright lights flashed through Gary's head as she knocked him to his knees! Dazed, he pressed his hand against the deep cut on his left cheek and jaw where the gun-sight had left its mark. Vainly, he tried to stop the bleeding.   
  
"I knew I had to kill you," she snarled, bringing the gun to bear against his left temple. "What you were offering, it wasn't what I wanted anymore, lover. I wanted . . . needed power! And I have it! The power of life and death!"  
  
Her remaining henchman was mesmerized by the tableau before him. He'd never seen anyone like this Angel broad! Not even Rossellini was this cold! This poor sap wouldn't stand a snowball's chance!  
  
The man Angel had felled took a slow, shuddering breath. His shoulders sagged, as if in acceptance of his imminent death. He dropped the hand pressed against his cheek and turned to meet her frozen glare with a look of such sorrow and compassion, it startled the hit-woman into taking a step backwards. Slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet and faced her.  
  
"You keep calling me 'lover,'" he sighed in a hollow voice. "We were never lovers except in my dreams. I saw something in you, Angel. I saw an innocence, a need . . . a need for understanding, for acceptance that no one else could give you. I saw all this because I had the same needs, the same desire for a normal life. I wasn't allowed to choose my path, so my innocence was lost before I even knew it was there. And I forced that loss on you." He reached out to gently stroke her cheek with his bloodstained hand. "For that, I'm sorry."  
  
Her face a study of pain and confusion, Angel turned her head until his hand was cupping her cheek. Her eyes took on a glazed, dreamy look as he leaned in as if to kiss her. With a sharp cry of fear and surprise, she broke his spell and shoved him back! The sound of his back slamming against the wall covered a soft thud as her remaining henchman crumpled to the floor. Angel's attention was still riveted on the man sliding down the wall before her, rather than what was going on behind her back.  
  
Dazed, Gary snapped back from wherever it was he had been sent while Tony made his plea to Angel. He looked up in confusion to see insane green eyes glaring at him over the barrel of her gun.  
  
"It's too late for 'sorry,' Tony," she hissed, her finger beginning to tighten on the trigger. "It was too late the moment you shot that bottle of pills from my hand."  
  
"Sweetie," an all too familiar voice drawled as a hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, "it's time to correct that mistake."   
  
Angel only had time for a brief glimpse of a towel-wrapped object just before it connected, sending her reeling into oblivion.  
  
*****************  
  
"I tol' ya'll to keep yer cotton-pickin' mitts offa my fella!" Polly growled as the hit-woman hit the floor. She turned quickly at the sound of running feet, her makeshift club ready for action.  
  
"Whoa!" Buddy exclaimed, looking down at the three still figures. "What hit them?"  
  
"Me," Polly grunted as she turned back to her injured friend. She quickly unwrapped the towel from around the huge pipe wrench she had found in the utility closet and tore it in half lengthwise. She used one piece to apply pressure to the still oozing gash on Gary's cheek. He was looking at her as if he had never seen her before.  
  
"P-Polly?"  
  
"In the flesh, sugar," she grinned. "Think you can stand?"  
  
"Um, ye-yeah," Gary mumbled. "Why?"  
  
"Cause I didn't hit the b---h hard enough to kill her," she told him grimly. "And I don't have anything to tie her up with."  
  
"I do."  
  
Gary and Polly looked up to see Buddy and Clay dragging Polly's first victim into the tiny office. Clay quickly snapped one end of a pair of cuffs on the man's left wrist, fed it around the leg of the desk, then snapped it on his right. Buddy was doing the same to the second man.   
  
"That Winslow fella gave us these," the songwriter explained. "He's right . . . "  
  
He was cut off by the blonde detective's surprised exclamation.   
  
". . .behind us."   
  
"They said you were tough," he remarked to the wily tech as he snapped a third set of cuffs on the unconscious assassin, "but wow!" He looked from the two identical figures who were kneeling to help the third to his feet. "Who's hurt?"  
  
"Gary," the one he assumed was Clay drawled. "Sleeping Beauty there pistol-whipped him just before Belle Starr cold-cocked 'er." He turned to his twin with a lopsided grin, nodding his head at the tech. "Maybe I need to write a song about her!" Nope, it was Buddy. Would he ever get those two straight?  
  
"No biggie," Polly shrugged as they helped Gary stretch out on the floor next to the desk. "The two morons were so wrapped up in watching her play 'cat and mouse' with Gary, it was easy to drop 'em where they stood. And what was the deal with you talkin' like you knew her?" she asked Gary. "You got all strange there for a coupla minutes."  
  
"Stranger than usual?" Winslow mumbled.   
  
"I heard that," was Gary's muffled reply. He was now holding the folded towel against his wounded face himself, as Polly bound up the wound in his right arm with the rest of the towel.. "I honestly have no idea what happened. Or what I said." He looked over at what he could see of the three people on the floor. "Is that the last of them?"  
  
"I think so," Winslow told them. "I found Clay sitting on Rossellini in another office around the corner. Two more chased Buddy, here, right into Armstrong and Brigatti. And there's one more in that storeroom we left."  
  
"There should be . . . one, no, two more," Gary mumbled. His face was really beginning to throb, now. So was his head. "I think I saw them by the front entrance." He began rubbing his chest as if it, too, were beginning to hurt. "Um, m-maybe they ran. Is . . . is everyone . . . okay?" he asked.   
  
"Everyone but you, sugar," Polly observed clinically. "You've got six shades of pale goin' on here." She turned to the other three. "We need to get him back to the hospital. Now."  
  
******************  
  
Pritchett and Dobbs finally got into the auditorium just as the ambulance pulled up. They followed the EMTs into the building, not really surprised to find to find that Hobson was the object of their concern. His condition had deteriorated rapidly. Gary had gone from merely being weak and pale to agitated and almost incoherent. The young tavern owner was thrashing about feebly, breathing in short gasps.  
  
"What's wrong with him?" Dobbs asked in barely concealed alarm. "Is this a result of his injuries?"  
  
"Not exactly," Polly huffed. "If we told you, you'd never believe us. Let's just say he's dyin' and leave it at that." She helped the EMTs load her friend onto the gurney and strap him in. "I've heard of you two," she told them angrily. "You'd think that the government would have better things for its agents to do than to hound one man who's never harmed another livin' soul. What does it matter how he knows anything? Gary's a good man. Leave 'im alone." Having said her piece, she followed as the gurney containing her young friend was taken to the ambulance.  
  
Dobbs and Pritchett were left flatfooted and openmouthed. They watched as the subject of their inquiry was whisked out the door, then turned to face each other.  
  
"I think it's time we dropped this line of investigation," Dobbs sighed. "I seriously doubt we'll learn anything useful from Hobson anyway."  
  
"I have to agree," Pritchett sighed. "Still, you have to wonder."  
  
*******************  
  
Once more, Gary found himself in the ER, hooked up to an IV pump and a bank of monitors. Both wrists were bound by soft, leather straps because he had been thrashing about in agony. What made it even worse, this time, he felt himself growing too weak to care. His chest was hurting again, as was his head. It was a deep, throbbing pain that shot straight through him. Just breathing seemed to take all his strength!  
  
"Wh-what's happening . . . to me?" he asked Dr. Carter. "C-can't . . ."  
  
"I know, Gary," Carter assured him. "Just take it easy. We're doing everything humanly possible for you." He checked Gary's vital signs once more before going out to talk with the group waiting expectantly for word of his condition.  
  
He met Dr. Lucas coming down the corridor, also headed for the waiting room. "What is it with this guy?" Lucas muttered heatedly. "Has the universe got a spite for him, or something?"  
  
"Damned if I know," Carter sighed. "He's certainly had more bad luck lately than most people do in a lifetime. What did his labs show?"  
  
"Normal," the taller man, grumbled. "Straight down the line, textbook normal. His EEG, however, shows that anomalous brainwave pattern is getting stronger, while his normal pattern is barely hanging in there. PET and SPECT scans are again showing garbled brain and heart function results. While the CT and MRI are normal! None of this makes any sense!"  
  
Carter stopped abruptly, turning to place a hand on Dr. Lucas' chest. "You need to dig a little deeper into his records," he suggested. "You're talking about a man who literally came back from the dead last year. I could make a career of writing about this guy, and never have to work again. But he's a good man, who's not afraid to put his life on the line for anyone. Even a total stranger. So, let's try whatever it takes to make this make sense! If those people waiting out there can come up with any suggestions, anything at all, don't just dismiss it as unconventional or preposterous. At this point I'm ready to break out the Ouija board!"  
  
******************  
  
They found the waiting room crowded with people concerned about a certain sad-eyed tavern owner. Lois and Bernie were there, of course, along with detectives Armstrong, Brigatti, and Winslow. They were gathered around Polly Gannon, plying her with questions. Marissa Clark had just arrived on the arm of Zeke Crumb. Claire, the psychic, was also present, as were Dusty, Buddy, and Clay. All conversation stopped as the two doctors walked in. Carter hesitantly approached Gary's parents.   
  
"He's getting worse," he admitted quietly. "Same symptoms as before, just . . . worse. The pain has gotten so bad that we can't touch it with anything we currently have available. Not without taking a serious chance of killing him. He's having trouble breathing. His heart rate is . . . is incredibly high and erratic. Even dim light hurts his eyes so bad he can't open them. Those strange marks on his head and chest have started bleeding and nothing we've tried can stop it! To top it off, we can't find a physical cause!"  
  
"Are you saying this is mental?" Lois asked tensely.  
  
"No!" Dr. Lucas quickly assured her. "Not at all! It's just . . . there's no rational explanation for what's happening to him. Dr. Carter told me that Gary has an . . . unusual history of beating the odds. If anyone has any ideas, no matter how far outside the box, we're open for suggestions."  
  
"We have to find Tony," Clare spoke up quickly. "That's his only chance. Look," she added as they all stared at her, "we already know that Tony's consciousness is inside Gary's body. It's possible that he sees this as a second chance at life, not realizing that he's still dying and taking Gary with him!"  
  
"But where do we look?" Lois asked anxiously. "We've already contacted every hospital, hospice, and nursing home in the tri-state area! All we know is that he was injured in Los Angeles . . . "  
  
"And brought here," Crumb spoke up. "He's right upstairs in your long term care unit."  
  
Every eye turned to stare at the ex-cop turned detective. "What?" he said to their stunned faces. "You didn't know? Tony Greco, AKA Paul Martin. Room 733. Been there in a coma for the last four years!"  
  
***************  
  
Lois stood looking down at the still, pale features of the man on the bed. If her Gary lost sixty pounds and never stepped out into the sunlight again, they would be twins. She glanced up at the monitors that recorded each breath; each heartbeat.   
  
"I'm so sorry," she whispered in a tight voice to the dark haired woman who sat by his side. "This must be so hard on you, watching . . . waiting . . . without hope."  
  
"There is always hope," Mrs. Greco sighed. "It comes down to what you're hoping for. My Tony, he's suffered enough. Whatever sins he has committed, I feel that he has made his peace with God. Now it is time for him to let go and pass on. But he cannot. We turned off the machines keeping him alive two weeks ago and he started breathing on his own. Still, I feel that his time grows short," she shrugged.  
  
Lois sat down next to the quietly grieving mother and took her hand.   
  
"We need to talk."  
  
*********************  
  
They had to move Tony into a room large enough to accommodate the extra bed. Gary, still in incredible pain, was only dimly aware that something was going on. In the past few hours since the concert, he had grown too weak to even need the mild restraints they had used in the ER.   
  
Clare sat down next to Gary as the others looked on expectantly. She took his hand in hers and began to talk to him in the same low, even tones she had used before. Once more, she had him standing on the stairway, walking down one slow step at a time.  
  
**********************  
  
The door was white this time. The same glimmering white as the light Andrew, the Angel Of Death, had previously emerged from. That disturbed Gary somewhat. He wasn't ready to die just yet. Still, if he wanted to live, he had to trust that Andrew was right. Tony had to move on. Reaching out a trembling hand, Gary pushed the door open.  
  
Tony was all alone in a room that looked a lot like Gary's old bedroom back in Hickory. There were differences, of course. Tony had liked baseball more than hockey. He had liked Italian opera and rock and roll, whereas Gary leaned more toward country and R&B.  
  
"I can't leave her," he sighed. "First Dad, then me. Who'll look after her?"  
  
"Your mom's a tough lady," Gary replied. "She's taken care of you all your life. Protected you from your dad the best she could. What makes you think she needs looking after?"  
  
"But she'll be all alone!"  
  
"No. She won't. She still has family, friends," Gary reminded him. "Once you're gone and she can accept that, then she can get on with her own life. She's a strong woman, with an unshakable faith in God's love. Don't make her question that by extending your own suffering."  
  
"But I don't have to suffer," Tony pleaded. "If you and I . . . if we stay joined like this . . ."  
  
"Then we both die," Gary told him flatly. "I'm already slipping into a coma. Just like you. Don't you see, Tony? It's time for you to let go! To move on to the next level, or whatever. But you and I, we can't stay like this!"  
  
"Then you go on and let me stay here!" he demanded. "I just need more time! I just . . . I just don't want to die!"  
  
"And neither does Gary," Andrew responded. The Angel of Death stepped into the room through the wall. "He still has many, many tasks ahead of him before he can rest. Would you be willing to take up his burden? To set aside your own needs and desires for the sake of people you don't even know? For some that you may never meet face-to-face? With no thought of reward or gratitude? Are you ready for such a huge responsibility?"  
  
Defeated, Tony sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. "Wh-what about Angel?" he asked quietly. "Will she be okay?"  
  
"Only God knows the answer to that," Andrew told him sadly. "She has a chance, now. A chance to get the help she needs, but she has to find her way back to God on her own. Once she takes that first step, we can help her, but we can't put her feet on that path for her."  
  
The young 'soldier' looked up, tears rolling gently down his cheeks.   
  
"Can I at least say good-bye to Momma?" he pleaded. "Let her know . . . how much I love her?"  
  
Smiling sadly, Andrew held out his hand. "I think we can arrange that."  
  
***************  
  
Gary's eyes fluttered open to see Claire gazing down at him with a concerned expression. He carefully turned his head, surprised when the pain did not return. His mother's worried frown swam into view as things started to come back into focus.  
  
"It worked?" he murmured softly. "I'm . . . I'm okay?"  
  
Dr. Carter turned from watching a monitor that was located out of sight over Gary's head. "Your EEG is back to normal," he reported in a relieved tone. "And I suspect that all your other tests will come back 'normal' tomorrow, also. How do you feel?"  
  
"Tired," Gary sighed. "Really . . . really tired." He had to fight to keep his eyes from sliding shut. "W-wait. Tony?"  
  
"He woke up just before you did," Lois told him, wiping her eyes and sniffling. "He . . . he asked to . . . to speak to his mother. They're . . . "  
  
The monitors over Tony's bed gave out a low, mournful, keening sound as all the little lines and squiggles went flat. It was as if they, too, felt the pain and sorrow as another soul passed from this plane of existence and into the next. Mrs. Greco patted her son's hand gently as she dried the tears from her cheeks.  
  
"He is gone," she sighed. "But he spoke to me one . . . one last time. He said . . . he said to tell Gary that he was grateful for the time you gave him, and that he was sorry for the pain you suffered on his behalf. He wanted me to say, 'Thank you.' Then . . . then he said he loved me!" The grieving mother collapsed, sobbing, into Lois and Bernie Hobson's embrace.   
  
*****************  
  
"So much like my Tony!" a gentle voice crooned. "You must be very proud of him."  
  
These were the first words Gary heard as he fought his way back to consciousness. Something softly brushed his uninjured cheek. Restlessly, he turned his head into the gentle touch. "M-mom?" he murmured.   
  
"Over here, sweetie." Her voice was coming from somewhere to his left.  
  
Gary blinked several times, trying to get his bleary eyes to stay open. Slowly, he began to focus on the gently smiling face of a woman he didn't know. She had thick, dark hair streaked with gray, and rich brown eyes. "Do I know you?" he murmured softly.  
  
Still smiling, the strange woman shook her head. "No, Gary Hobson," she sighed. "But I wish my son had known you. Perhaps his life would have been different." She closed her eyes briefly and nodded in a little half-shrug. "Perhaps he would still be alive. But . . . at least he has found peace now, thanks to you."  
  
"You're welcome," he whispered. He cautiously turned his head to look for his own mother. She smiled down at him from the other side of the bed. "Y'okay?" he mumbled.  
  
"Why do you keep asking that?" she sighed. "I'm fine, Gary. Your dad is fine, and so is everyone else. The only one injured was you. How do you feel?"  
  
"Tired," he admitted, letting his eyes close for a moment. He raised a hand to gently probe the bandage covering the left side of his face. "Hurts."  
  
"The arm, too, I imagine," Lois sympathized. His only answer was a slow nod. "They tell me the one on your face took about twelve stitches, but shouldn't leave a scar. The other was mostly just torn muscle. You'll have a scar from that one, but no permanent damage."  
  
"Good," Gary mumbled. "Startin' to look like a road map." He blinked owlishly at his mother, trying to keep her in focus. "What 'bout Angel 'n' Stevie?"  
  
"They're both downstairs," she told him. "They had to treat Rossellini for a gunshot wound to the hand," Lois explained, "courtesy of one Clay Treyton. Angel and two of her thugs are being treated for head injuries. It's a good thing Polly is still off-duty," she added with a giggle. "She wanted to do the CT scan on Ms. Chaste herself. Said she'd keep at it 'til she got it right. Even if she had to keep her in there all night."  
  
Gary had to smile at that, grimacing as it pulled at his stitches. "Don't think Polly likes her much," he murmured drowsily. "I'm a little tired. S'okay if I 'sleep in' today?"  
  
"Yes, dear," Lois Hobson murmured, as she gently brushed the hair from his forehead. "You go back to sleep. We can talk later." Gary obediently closed his eyes and was soon sound asleep once more.  
  
"Such a nice boy," Mrs. Greco said, smiling sadly. "He must be a source of great joy to you."  
  
"And great sorrow," Lois sighed in answer. "He's been through so much. And we've come this close to losing him so many times."  
  
"I am not putting possession down as a diagnosis!" Dr. Lucas exclaimed as he and Carter entered the room. "No way! I'll be laughed right out of the medical community!"  
  
"Then what are you going to say?" the young ER physician asked, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Hobson. Mrs. Greco. How's our patient?"  
  
"Still drifting in and out," Lois reported. "Some pain, but not enough to keep him awake. What are you two arguing about?"  
  
Dr. Lucas shot his colleague a rueful look. "Dr. Carter thinks I should document this as a case of possession," he grumbled. "I'd look like a complete and utter fool! No, I'm just going on the record with his injuries, his symptoms, an adverse reaction to some of the medication, and . . . and anomalous test results! Under no circumstances will I admit to consulting a psychic, or anything even resembling a paranormal explanation!"  
  
"You do not believe in God, Dr. Lucas?" Mrs. Greco asked stiffly.  
  
"As a matter of fact," the doctor replied, "I'm Catholic. Why?"  
  
"Because He is the ultimate 'paranormal explanation,' Doctor," she replied archly. "All miracles flow from His hand. Whether directly or through His agents here on earth. My son woke up and spoke just before he died. That, to me, is all the proof I will ever need of God's love. And to know that there are others out there who wear Tony's face, speak with his voice, it is as if some part of him still lives." She turned to Lois with a sorrowful smile. "And thank you for warning me. If I had seen so many wearing my son's face at one time, it might have stopped my heart. It must have been quite a shock for you as well."  
  
"I was lucky," Lois sighed, unable to keep her hand from playing with her son's hair. "We got hit by it one at a time." Smiling mischievously, she tickled the tip of Gary's nose with the corner of her handkerchief. He mumbled something too low for them to hear, making a swatting gesture and turning his head to the side. "I think it bothered him more than us," she added. "He gets flustered so easy."  
  
"How does he feel about instant wealth?" a voice asked from the door. Lois looked up to see Detectives Brigatti and Winslow entering the suddenly crowded room. It was Winslow who had spoken.  
  
"What do you mean?" Lois asked.  
  
"It seems that over a dozen countries have rewards out for the capture and conviction of one Steve Rossellini and a mysterious woman partner," Brigatti spoke up. "Including the good ol' US of A. After they were arrested for trying to kill Gary, we had enough probable cause to search their hotel, and to have Rossellini's place in LA gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Can you believe they kept photographic records of their hits?"  
  
"We've so much evidence on them," Winslow gloated, "they'll never see daylight again! And everyone's in agreement on who gets the reward. Buddy Jackson, Clay Treyton, Ms. Gannon, and the boy wonder there. Without their little 'triple play,' we never could've flushed them out."  
  
"And Ms. Gannon put that Angel . . . person down for the count," Brigatti grinned. She turned to her partner with a puzzled frown. "That reminds me. Who won the pool?"  
  
"Jerry in Admissions," Winslow told her. "They were taking bets on how long before those two butted heads again," he explained, "and who would come out on top. Angel was given the edge because she was a pro." He shot his partner a smug look.  
  
"Jerry's probably buying a new car with his winnings," Toni admitted with a grimace. "Most of us just figured, 'Hey, beginner's luck.' Who'd have guessed Gannon'd find a pipe wrench!"  
  
*******************  
  
"A quarter million?" Gary exclaimed quietly. "Each? Wow!"  
  
"Those two have been busy little beavers," Brigatti grinned. "Thirty-two major hits in the last four years. Everything from protected witnesses to political figures. The money is coming from so many different sources they had to pool it into a Swiss account. This is just an advance check as a reward for their capture. The bulk of it will be distributed if they're convicted."  
  
"Practically a foregone conclusion," Winslow added. "The DA is on cloud nine. Said he'll never get this lucky again if he lives forever."  
  
Gary looked again at the check in his hand. One million dollars issued on a major financial institution right in Chicago. It was made out to the four of them. Two hundred and fifty thousand. Each. And that was just the 'finder's fee', so to speak!  
  
"H-how much is the bulk of the reward?" he asked hesitantly. Brigatti named a sum that almost gave him a real heart attack! "Oh . . . my . . . Lord!" he responded breathlessly. "I can't accept this! I was just trying to stay alive!"  
  
"I don't mind being independently wealthy," Buddy murmured. "That's what I've fought for most of my life. But this is ridiculous!"  
  
"I have to agree," Clay nodded. "It kinda takes all the fun out of the chase to just have it handed to ya. Couldn't we just keep what we need and do somethin' . . . positive with the rest of it?"  
  
Polly was sitting on a barstool in McGinty's the day after Gary had been released from the hospital. For the final time, she hoped. She had been promised a face-to-face meeting with Dusty Wyatt. Nothing had been said about this!  
  
"I could retire early," she sighed, "but I wouldn't know what to do with myself. There are so many ways we can put this to better use!"  
  
Buddy and Clay looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. "Child Find," they murmured simultaneously.   
  
"Pardon me?" Brigatti asked.  
  
"A program that helps reunite families," Gary responded, understanding instantly. Adjusting the sling on his right arm, he raised up from where he had been leaning on the bar. "You want to give the bulk of it to them?"  
  
"Or start our own foundation," Buddy replied thoughtfully. "It could serve a double purpose. Help adopted children find their real families, and . . ."  
  
"Identify possible blood and organ donors," Polly chimed in. "There's so many people out there who can't give complete family medical histories just because they don't know who their families are! People with hidden genetic disorders that could someday become a matter of life and death. The two projects go practically hand-in-hand."  
  
Clay was still looking at his twin, remembering the months . . . years of frustration before he had chanced on the lead that had finally reunited them. From the look on Buddy's face, he was remembering similar experiences.  
  
"I wouldn't know how to even begin something like that," Clay admitted. "You used to be a stockbroker, Gary. Any ideas?"  
  
"Yeah," he nodded absently. "We find a good investment banker who'll make it his business to get the most out of our money. See to it that it's spent wisely, not wasted. I still know a few people in the market. Let me put out a few feelers. See who they recommend." He looked up at the TV, which was showing the latest images of what was once the World Trade Center. "Let's send a hefty chunk to the Red Cross," he murmured.  
  
That suggestion received a unanimous vote.  
  
"Personally," Crumb grumbled from his place behind the bar, "I'd buy a cabin by the lake and go fishing for the rest of my life, but that's just me."  
  
"Yeah, right!" Gary snorted. "You'd start your own business, or something. That reminds me. How did you know where Tony was? No one else knew he was even in Chicago!"  
  
The crusty ex-cop just shrugged. "Your mom sent me looking for a link between the three of you," he replied. "The investigation took me to several places in Texas and California. While I was doing some research in Los Angeles, a friend of mine saw your picture and asked what I was doing with a picture of his protected witness! So I let him think I knew more than I did and he let it slip that Greco was here under an alias, in the hopes that he'd wake up and spill the beans on his boss, Vincent Perillo. After that, it was a piece of cake to find out where he was."  
  
"So," Buddy drawled, "it was part luck, part fox. Did . . . did you find out anything . . . about us?" he asked, indicating himself and Clay.  
  
Crumb nodded as he sipped at his beer. "Your mother was Virginia Metcalf from River Run, Ohio. Your dad was a low life named Barry Ross who died in a bar fight two years after you two were born. Did you guys know you were all born in the same month? September of '65. So was Greco. Anyway, your grandparents, Jeff and Ginger Metcalf, are still living in Ohio. They asked me to give you a message. They'd like to meet you and find out anything you can tell them about their daughter. See, they never heard from her again after she ran off."  
  
Buddy and Clay exchanged a hopeful look. Grandparents? Another link to their mutual past.  
  
Lois Hobson came in carrying a tray of chicken wings just in time to hear the last half of Crumbs statement. As she set the tray on the counter, she turned to the detective with a thoughtful look.  
  
"Metcalf, you said?" she murmured. "My mother was a Metcalf, and she had a brother, Steven, who lived in River Run. He died before WWII, but he left behind two sons and a daughter. I believe one of them, the youngest, was named Jeff. Yes! Played right field for the Cleveland Indians for ten years before he retired and went into broadcasting! And his wife did a 'home show' for the local television station, WREO, or something like that. Oh, the whole family was absolutely devastated when their little girl ran off with some gambler! They spent a fortune on private investigators, trying to find her and bring her home. I think they lost the trail somewhere in New Mexico or Nevada."   
  
"Where Ross changed both their names to Corbitt and took off for Texas," Crumb concluded. "It took a lot of backtracking and talking to a bunch of old geezers in nursing homes to find that out, but they remembered her. She was a real knockout, to hear them tell it."  
  
The twins looked at Gary and smiled.  
  
"So, we really are cousins," Buddy commented dryly. "Welcome to the family, cuz."  
  
"Oh, this is wonderful!" Lois exclaimed, giving the twins a big hug. "Just wait 'til the next family reunion! We are going to blow minds right and left! Oh, I have to tell your father! This is . . . Oh!" She gave them another squeeze before releasing them and practically running for the office.   
  
The front door swung open at that moment, admitting a familiar figure in a black Stetson. Polly happened to glance up at that moment and her face split into a wide grin. "Hallelujah!" she sighed. "There is a God!"  
  
Dusty sauntered in and took a seat next to the star-struck tech. She looked like she had died and gone to Heaven. He smiled at her, reaching over to take her hand. Polly, that no-nonsense, hard-as-nails Southerner, could feel her bones turning to Jell-O.  
  
"You must be Polly," he drawled. "Hear you swing one hell of a pipe wrench."  
  
"Oh, yes," she sighed, a slow flush crawling up her face. "A very handy tool. I cannot believe I'm sittin' here, actually talkin' to Dusty Wyatt Chandler!"  
  
"I can't believe I'm actually seeing you blush!" Gary commented with a grin. "This calls for drinks on the house!"  
  
"Soda for you, Bucko," Polly reminded him pointedly. "I'm not that calf-eyed!"  
  
"Yes'm," Gary grinned, his hand going automatically to the bandage on his cheek. Trust Polly to keep her mind on business, even while 'off-duty'! He poured drinks for his guests, with Brigatti and Winslow going for the less intoxicating option, also.  
  
"I can't stay long," Dusty chuckled, to Polly's obvious disappointment. "We're on our way to Nashville for the Grand Ol' Opry. Just stopped by to pay my respects to the ladies and to drop off these backstage passes for a new sit-com that's filmin' here in Chicago. 'What About Joan,' I think it's called. I've got a cousin on the show that I haven't seen since we were kids. His name is Kyle. He heard I was in town and sent me these passes for Friday night's filming, but I'm not gonna be able to make it. He said I could come tomorrow evening, but . . ." he said with a shrug. "Anyway, would any of ya'll be willin' to go and give him my apologies?"  
  
"I'd love to," Polly sighed, "but I'm on duty both nights."  
  
"Same here," Brigatti shrugged. "We're supposed to be teaming up with the Justice Department for some kind of sting operation."  
  
"And I have a dinner date," Crumb shrugged. "So that lets me out."  
  
"I guess that leaves us," Buddy replied, picking up the three passes. "I'm not doin' anything tomorrow night. How 'bout you, Clay?"  
  
"I'm free," the cowboy shrugged. "Gary?"  
  
"I'll have to let you know," he hedged. "How's about I meet you there?"  
  
Clay turned away with an amused gleam in his eyes. It didn't take much to get 'cousin' Gary flummoxed. His gaze strayed across an array of photos behind the main bar. One, in particular, caught his eye. It had a whole crowd of people standing around a man seated in what looked like . . . It was! He got up from his stool and walked around the bar. Taking down the picture, he looked closer; then handed it to his twin without saying a word.  
  
Puzzled, Buddy glanced at the picture, then back to his brother, not understanding at first. Clay reached over and tapped a finger on the seated figure. The young songwriter's eyes widened as he recognized the nervously smiling figure.   
  
"Whatcha got there?" Crumb asked. He took the picture from Buddy's hand. "Oh, that was taken last September. Kind of a combination 'birthday/welcome home' party. How long had you been in the hospital that time, Hobson?"  
  
Gary glanced at the picture and quickly turned away, barely suppressing a shiver. "About four months," he mumbled. "And another four in that wheelchair."  
  
"And two more before you could toss the canes," Polly nodded solemnly. "I think you were going for a record on 'Near Death Experiences.' How many was it? Four that first night."  
  
"Then the near drowning after Savalas tried to kill you," Crumb added. "Then almost freezing to death saving that lost kid during that blizzard. Wasn't there one more?"  
  
"Yeah, almost," Gary murmured in a barely audible voice. "At that camp. Could we talk about something else, please? Two thousand wasn't a very good year for me."  
  
Crumb looked over at his miserable young friend. "Ya think?"  
  
****************** 


	4. Epilogue

The next evening found Gary trying not to create too much noise as he followed the garrulous old man who had admitted him to the Chicago Studio City complex. The uniformed guard had taken one look at him and stepped out of the way without even asking for his pass.  
  
"You're here even earlier than usual," the security guard was saying as he led Gary into the converted warehouse. "They must've given you a bigger scene this week."  
  
"Ex-excuse me?" Gary stammered. "I think you must have me confused . . ."  
  
"That's okay, sir," the guard assured him with a sly wink. "If anyone asks, I haven't seen you since last evening's rehearsal. It's none of my business who you rehearse with. Too bad about this bein' the last episode an' all. I'm gonna miss all the action and seein' all o' you guys. What happened to your face, if you don't mind my asking? Never mind. It's none of my business. Just hope make-up will cover it." He stopped in front of a door with the name 'Chandler' stenciled across the top half. The guard unlocked the door and gave it a gentle push. "There you go, sir. I'll let you know when the others get here."  
  
"Th-thank you," Gary replied, "but there must be . . ."  
  
"Oh, it's no problem, sir," the anonymous man grinned. "Would you like some coffee or something?"  
  
"N-no, that's okay," the young bartender replied nervously. "I'll be fine." He slid into the room through the half open door, giving the guard a half-hearted smile and a nod, before pushing it closed.  
  
"Nice of you to join us, cuz."  
  
Gary spun around, clutching at his chest as he did. "Christ, Buddy!" he said in a whispered gasp. "Give a guy a heart attack! What are we doing in here? In Chandler's dressing room!"  
  
"Damned if we've been able to figure it out," the other twin shrugged from his seat near a tall wardrobe. "Buddy was already here when I arrived. Some guards just led us here and said they'd let us know when it was time. Whatever that means. That was over an hour ago."  
  
"Yeah," Buddy muttered. "We've been coolin' our heels here ever since." He was sprawled on an overstuffed sofa. "You're the first person we've seen."  
  
Suddenly, Gary became aware of muffled voices just beyond the door. It sounded like the security guard who had escorted Gary into the dressing room. He was talking hurriedly, trying to explain something to whomever was with him. Gary turned to face the twins.  
  
"M-maybe we shouldn't be here," he stammered, pacing nervously as the door opened behind him. "They must've thought we were . . . What?" he asked when saw the stunned looks on the twins' faces. They stood slowly, eyes fixed on something just behind Gary.   
  
"I don't believe this," Buddy and Clay murmured simultaneously.  
  
His heart beating like a jackhammer, the young barkeep turned to see what had so riveted their attention..  
  
"Oh . . . my . . .Lord!" the figure in the doorway said in a near whisper.  
  
Stunned, Gary could barely hear the startled exclamation of the security guards standing behind the actor. Their voices were drowned out by the rushing noise in his own head as his vision narrowed down to that one face. His face. "T-Tony?" he gasped.  
  
"N-no, um, Kyle," the other man stammered in return, extending his hand. "Kyle Chandler, M-Mr. . . .?"  
  
There was no answer to his half formed question, as Gary's mind had decided enough was enough. His eyes rolled up as his knees buckled. Clay and Buddy jumped forward quickly, all three men grabbing him at the same time and easing him to the floor.  
  
One of the guards was sent for the first-aid kit or an ammonia capsule, whichever he could find first, while another went looking for water. Anything to rouse the stricken man. Clay and Buddy were rubbing his wrists, all the time shooting amazed glances at the man whose appearance had so adversely affected their cousin.  
  
"Is he always this high strung?" Kyle Chandler asked as he helped loosen Gary's shirt. "I mean, granted, this is a mind blower, for sure, but . . . Was it something I said?"  
  
"N-no," Buddy replied, a little shaken up himself. "Gary's just been under a lot of . . . of stress lately."  
  
Chandler took in the bandage covering the left side of the stricken man's face, and the sling confining his right arm. The unconscious man also had the pale, haggard look of someone just released from a long confinement. His face mirroring the concern and wry amusement of the other two, he murmured, "Ya think?"  
  
*****************  
  
The four of them sat in the outer offices of Union Securities, one of the most prestigious investment companies in the Greater Chicago area. Everyone that Gary had spoken to had agreed that, given their choice, this was the guy they wanted handling their money.  
  
Gary sat with his head in his hands. He still couldn't believe that he had passed out yesterday. Although, given the circumstances, the others had found it more than understandable. Especially with his recent history. Still, it had been embarrassing and had left him increasingly on edge. He felt as if the others were watching him, waiting for his next breakdown. Even Polly kept shooting him little sidelong glances.  
  
What made it even worse were the looks they kept getting from the people who worked there! One guy found it so hard to take his eyes off the quartet that he had walked into a potted palm.  
  
"L-let's try someplace else," Gary suggested nervously. "I mean, um, this place seems to be a little . . . busy."  
  
"All the better," Clay drawled. "Means they know their business."  
  
"Just calm down, Cuz," Buddy chuckled. "You're worse than a calf at brandin' time. This won't take all that long."  
  
Before Gary could respond, the secretary led another client out. She smiled at the young man and said something that made him smile in return. When he'd left, she turned to the four people sitting in the waiting area. Her smile seemed a little . . . strained as she directed it at them.  
  
"Mr. Evans will see you now."  
  
"Bout time," Polly grumbled. "Let's get this done."  
  
They were led past the secretary's desk and into a spacious corner office with large windows that looked out over the magnificent Chicago skyline. There was the sound of running water on the other side of a set of double doors that stood slightly ajar.   
  
"Just have a seat," a man's voice called. "I'll be right out."  
  
Buddy and Clay immediately headed for the windows, admiring the spectacular view. Polly and Gary took seats in front of the large desk. Gary seemed a little edgy. That voice had sounded so familiar.  
  
The voice chuckled to someone else they couldn't see as the portal opened wider and he stepped through, a cordless phone pressed to his ear. "That's great, Joanie," he said as he rounded the door, his face creased in a smile. His smile froze, however, as he caught sight of his four visitors. It was slowly replaced by a look of stunned amazement. "J-Joanie. Sweetheart, I-I'm gonna hafta . . . hafta call you back. I, um, I have v-visitors. Y-yes, I love you, too. I really, really have to go. Y-yes. Th-the visitors." He quickly turned the phone off and stuck it in his pocket. "Oh, boy," he muttered. "Do I have visitors!" He managed to summon up a strained smile as he approached the two in front of his desk. "H-hi, I'm Jake Evans. How can I . . . help . . . you."  
  
Three of his visitors had turned toward the fourth, open concern written on their faces as the woman half rose in anticipation. The object of their attention, however, sat frozen in open-mouthed amazement. After a moment he seemed to come back from wherever his mind had fled. Slowly, he rose to his feet, mouth working, but no words coming out.  
  
"Ga-ry?" Polly said in a soothing voice. She made urgent hand motions to the other two, who looked only slightly less stunned than Gary. They took the hint, though, and started easing toward their wild-eyed cousin. "It's okay. Just calm down."   
  
Gary was anything but calm. "Y-you you you're Jake Evans?" he finally managed to stammer.  
  
"Ahm, y-yeah," Evans replied hesitantly. "A-and you are . . ."  
  
Gary started backing slowly towards the door, nervously slapping his fist into his palm and snapping his fingers. "Me? I'm . . . um, heh-heh-heh-I'm outta here!"  
  
************  
  
Jake's secretary stood close to the door, unaware of the crowd growing behind her as word spread of the three men who looked so much like her boss. She was listening intently, trying to picture Mr. Evans' reaction to the astounding group. Wait! What was going on? Someone had just shouted something. It had sounded suspiciously like 'Catch him!' At that moment, the door was snatched open and she was almost bowled over by the young man with the bandage on one cheek. He never slowed a step. His right foot hit the seat of her chair, launching him clear over her desk in one stupendous, panic driven leap! The crowd of gaping onlookers scattered as he bolted for the nearest exit.  
  
The other two came barreling past a second later, running around her desk instead of over it. One of them yelled something about a check as they disappeared down the hallway. Stunned, Jake's secretary turned to see her boss and a woman in her forties standing in the doorway. Mr. Evans looked just as amazed as she felt.   
  
The woman turned to him with a martyred expression and a strained smile. "Please forgive the disturbance," she drawled. "Gary's been under a lot of stress lately."  
  
Jake slowly turned to face her, his own eyes a little wild.  
  
"Ya think?"  
  
**************  
  
*finito?*  
  
Please send feedback to Polgana54@cs.com 


End file.
